(IfotnBU Iniiwtaltg ffiibrarg attiaca, New florh BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF HENRY W. SAGE 1891 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/cletails/cu31924031034956 THE AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING AND KINDRED AFFECTIONS CARICATURK OF TWO GREAT VICTORIAN P W. IM. THACKERAY AND CHARLES DICKENS THE AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING AND KINDRED AFFECTIONS BY a! EDWARD NEWTON XriTH ILLUSTRATIONS BOSTON THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PBESS 1918 z COPYRIGHT, I918, BY A. BDWARD NEWTON DEDICATION //, as Eugene Field suggests, womenfolk are few in that part of paradise especially reserved for book-lovers I do not care. One woman will he there, for I shall insist that eight and twenty years probation entitles her to share my biblio-bliss above as she has shared it here below. That woman is my wife. a. edwaed newton OCTOBEH, 1918 ESSAY INTRODUCTORY A MAN (or a woman) is the most interesting thing in the world ; and next is a book, which enables one to get at the heart of the mystery; and although not many men can say why they are or what they are, any man who publishes a book can, if he is on good terms with his publisher, secure the use of a little space to tell how the book came to be what it is. Some years ago a very learned friend of mine pub- lished a book, and in the introduction warned the "gentle reader" to skip the first chapter, and, as I have always maintained, by inference suggested that the rest was easy reading, which was not the case. In point of fact, the book was not intended for the "gentle reader" at all: it was a book written by a scholar for the scholar. Now, I have worked on a different plan. My book is written for the "tired business man" (there are a goodly number of us), who flatters himself that he is fond of reading; and as it is my first book, I may be permitted to tell how it came to be published. One day in the autumn of 1913, a friend, my part- ner, with whom it has been my privilege to be asso- sociated for so many years, remarked that it was time for me to take a holiday, and handed me a copy of the "Geographical Magazine." The number was viii ESSAY INTRODUCTORY devoted to Egypt; and, seduced by the charm of the illustrations, on the spur of the moment I decided on a trip up the Nile. Things moved rapidly. In a few weeks my wife and I were in the Mediterranean, on a steamer headed for Alexandria. We had touched at Genoa and were soon to reach Naples, when I discovered a feeling of homesickness stealing over me. I have spent my happiest holidays in London. Already I had tired of Egypt. The Nile has been flowing for centuries and would continue to flow. There were books to be had in London, books which would not wait. Somewhat shamefacedly I put the matter up to my wife; and when I discovered that she had no insuperable objection to a change of plan, we left the steamer at Naples, and after a few weeks with friends in Rome, started en grande vitesse toward London. By this time it will have been discovered that I am not much of a traveler; but I have always loved Lon- don — London with its wealth of literary and historic association, with its countless miles of streets lined with inessential shops overflowing with things that I don't want, and its grimy old book-shops over- flowing with things that I do. One gloomy day I picked up in the Charing Cross Road, for a shilling, a delightful book by Richard Le Gallienne, "Travels in England." Like myself, Le Gallienne seems not to have been a great traveler — he seldom reached the place he started for; and losing his way or changing his mind, may be said to have ESSAY INTRODUCTORY ix arrived at his destination when he has reached a com- fortable inn, where, after a simple meal, he lights his pipe and proceeds to read a book. Exactly my idea of travel! The last time I read "Pickwick" was while making a tour in Northern Italy. It is wonderful how conducive to reading I found the stuffy smoking-rooms of the little steamers that dart like water-spiders from one landing to an- other on the Italian Lakes. It was while I was poking about among the old book-shops that it occurred to me to write a little story about my books — when and where I had bought them, the prices I had paid, and the men I had bought them from, many of whom I knew well; and so, when my holiday was done, I lived over again its pleasant associations in writing a paper that I called "Book-Collecting Abroad." Subsequently I wrote another, — "Book-Collecting at Home," — it being my purpose to print these papers in a little volume to be called "The Amenities of Book-Col- lecting." I intended this for distribution among my friends, who are very patient with me; and I sent my manuscript to a printer in the closing days of July, 1914. A few days later something happened in Europe, the end of which is not yet and we all became panic-stricken. For a moment it seemed un- likely that one would care ever to open a book again. Acting upon impulse, I withdrew the order from my printer, put my manuscript aside, and devoted my- self to my usual task — that of making a living. X ESSAY INTRODUCTORY Byron says, "The end of all scribblement is to amuse." For some years I have been possessed of an itch for "scribblement"; gradually this feeling reas- serted itself, and I came to see that we must become accustomed to working in a world at war, and to realizing that life must be permitted to resume, at least to some extent, its regular course; and the idea of my little book recurred to me. It had frequently been suggested by friends that my papers be published in the "Atlantic." What grudge they bore this excellent magazine I do not know, but they always said the "Atlantic"; and so, when one day I came across my manuscript, it oc- curred to me that it would cost only a few cents to lay it before the editor. At that time I did not know the editor of the "Atlantic" even by name. My pleasure then can be imagined when, a week or so later, I re- ceived the following letter: — Oct. 30, 1914. Dear Mr. Newton: — The enthusiasm of your pleasant paper is contagious, and I find myself in odd moments looking at the gaps in my own library with a feeling of dismay. I believe that very many readers of the "Atlantic" will feel as I do, and it gives me great pleasure to accept your paper. Yours sincerely, Ellert Sedgwick. Shortly afterward, a check for a substantial sum fluttered down upon my desk, and it was impossible that I should not remember how much Milton had ESSAY INTRODUCTORY xi received for his "Paradise Lost," — the receipt for which is in the British Museum, — and draw con- clusions therefrom entirely satisfactory to my self- esteem. My paper was published, and the maga- zine, having a hardy constitution, survived; I even received some praise. There was nothing important enough to justify criticism, and as a result of this chance publication I made a number of delightful acquaintances among readers and collectors, many of whom I might almost call friends although we have never met. Not wishing to strain the rather precarious friend- ship with Mr. Sedgwick which was the outcome of my first venture, it was several years before I ven- tured to try him with another paper. This I called "A Ridiculous Philosopher." I enjoyed writing this paper immensely, and although it was the reverse of timely, I felt that it might pass editorial scrutiny. Again I received a letter from Mr. Sedgwick, in which he said: — Two days ago I took your paper home with me and spent a delightful half-hour with it. Now, as any editor would tell you, there is no valid reason for a paper on Godwin at this time, but your essay is so capitally sea- soned that I cannot find it in my heart to part with it. Indeed I have been gradually making the editorial dis- covery that, if a paper is sufficiently readable, it has some claim upon the public, regardless of what the plans of the editor are. And so the upshot of my deliberation is that we shall accept your paper with great pleasure and publish it when the opportunity occurs. 3di ESSAY INTRODUCTORY The paper appeared in due course, and several more followed. The favor with which these papers were received led the "Atlantic" editors to the consideration of their reprint in permanent form, to- gether with several which now appear for the first time. All the illustrations have been made from items in my own collection. I am thus tying a string, as it were, around a parcel which contains the result of thirty-six years of collecting. It may not be much, but, as the Irishman said of his dog, "It's mine own." My volume might, with propriety; be called "Newton's Complete Recreations." I have referred to my enjoyment in writing my "Ridiculous Philosopher." I might say the same of all my papers. I am aware that my friend, Dr. Johnson, once remarked that no man but a fool writes a book except for money. At some risk, then, I admit that I have done so. I have written for fun, and my papers should be read, if read at all, for the same purpose, not that the reader will or is expected to laugh loud. The loud laugh, in Gold- smith's phrase, it may be remembered, bespeaks the vacant mind. But I venture to hope that the judi- cious will pass a not unpleasant hour in turning my pages. One final word: I buy, I collect "Presentation Books"; and I trust my friends will not think me churlish when I say that it is not my intention to turn a single copy of this, my book, into a presenta- tion volume. Whatever circulation it may have must ESSAY INTRODUCTORY xiii be upon its own merits. Any one who sees this book in the hands of a reader, on the Hbrary table, or on the shelves of the collector, may be sure that some one, either wise or foolish as the event may prove, has paid a substantial sum for it, either in the current coin of the realm, or perchance in thrift stamps. It may, indeed, be that it has been secured from a lend- ing library, in which case I would suggest that the book be returned instantly. "Go ye rather to them that sell and buy for yourselves." And having sepa- rated yourself from your money, in the event that you should feel vexed with your bargain, you are at liberty to communicate your grievance to the pub- lisher, securing from him what redress you may; and in the event of failure there yet remains your in- alienable right, which should aflford some satisfaction, that of damning The Author. "Oak Knoli,," Daylesford, Pennstlvania, April 7. 1918. TABLE OF CONTENTS I. Book-Collecting Abroad 1 11. Book-Collecting at Home 36 III. Old Catalogttes and New Prices . . . .65 IV. "Association" Books and First Editions . . 107 V. " What Might Have Been " 129 VI. James Boswell — His Book 145 VII. A Light-Blue Stocking 186 VIII. A Ridiculous Philosopher 226 IX. A Great Victorian 249 X. Temple Bar Then and Now 267 XI. A Macaroni Pakson 292 XII. Oscar Wilde 318 Xin. A Word in Memory 343 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Caricature of Two Great Victorians . Frontispiece in Color W. M. Thackeray and Charles Dickens Title OF "Paradise Lost." First Edition .... 6 Title of Franklin's Edition of Cicero's "Cato Major" 9 Letter of Thomas Hardy to his First Publisher, "Old Tinsley" 12 Page of Original MS. of Hardy's "Far from the Madding Crowd " 14 Bernard Quaritch 14 Title of MS. of " Lyford Redivivus " 16 Bernard Alfred Quaritch 16 Samuel Johnson 20 Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds about 1770, for Johnson's Step- Daughter, Lucy Porter. Engraved by Watson Page of Prayer in Dr. Johnson's Autograph ... 23 Title of Keats's Copy of Spenser's Works ... 24 Portrait of Tennyson reading "Maud" to the Brown- ings, BY Rossetti 26 Dr. Johnson's Church, St. Clement Danes ... 31 From a pen-and-ink sketch by Charles G. Osgood LsrscRiPTioN TO Mrs. Thrale in Dr. Johnson's Hand . 32 LsrscRiPTioN to General Sir A. Gordon in Queen Vic- toria's Hand 35 George D. Smith • .... 36 Photographed by Genthe xviii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Autograph MS. of Lamb's Poem, "Elegy on a Quid of Tobacco" 40 Dh. a. S. W. Rosenbach 42 Photographed by Genthe Title OF "Robinson Crusoe." First Edition ... 45 Title OP "Oliver Twist" 47 Presentation Copy to W. C. Macready Original Illustration FOR "Vanity Fair" ... 48 Becky Sharp throwing Dr. Johnson's "Dixonary" out of the carriage window, as she leaves Miss Pinkerton's School. From the first pen-and-ink sketch, by Thackeray, afterwards elaborated. Specimen Proof-Sheet op George Moore's "Memoirs OF My Dead Life" 50 Title op George Moore's "Pagan Poems" ... 51 Presentation Copy to Oscar Wilde. Title OP Blake's "Marriage OF Heaven AND Hell" . 52 Charles Lamb's House at Enfield 54 Inscription by Joseph Conrad in a copy of "The Nigger OP THE ' Narcissus ' " 56 The Author's Book-Platb 60 Henry E. Huntington 72 Stoke Poges Church 74 A fine example of fore-edge painting. Title of Blake's " Songs of Innocence and Experience " 80 "A Leaf PROM AN Unopened Volume" 82 Specimen page of an unpublished manuscript of Charlotte Bronte Title of the Kilmarnock Edition of Burns's Poems . 85 Fifteenth-Century English MS. on Vellum: BoBTHIUS's " De CoNSOLATIONE PHILOSOPHIiB " . .90 Title of George Herbert's "The Temple." First Edition 97 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xix First Page of a Rare Edition of "Robinson Crusoe" 102 Autograph MS. of a Poem by Keats — "To the Misses M at Hastings" 105 Inscription to Swinburne from Dante Rossetti . . 106 Autograph Inscription by Stevenson, in a Copy of his "Inland Voyage" 109 Title of a Unique Copy of Stevenson's "Child's Gar- den of Verses" 110 New Building of the Grolier Club 114 Inscription to Charles Dickens, Junior, from Charles Dickens 116 Illustration, "The Last of the Spirits," by John Leech for Dickens's "Ch!eistmas Carol" 116 From the original water-color drawing. Autograph Dedication to Dickens's "The Village Coquettes" 118 Title of Meredith's "Modern Love," with Autograph Inscription to Swinburne 121 Inscription by Dr. Johnson in a Copy of "Rasselas" . 125 Inscription by Woodrow Wilson, in a Copy of his "Con- stitutional Government of the United States" . 126 Inscription by James Whitcomb Riley .... 128 Charles Lamb . . , 130 Frances Maria Kelly 132 Miss Kelly in Various Characters 136 MS. Dedication of Lamb's Works to Miss Kelly . . 137 Autograph Letter of Lamb to Miss Kelly . . . 139 Charles and Mary Lamb 144 XX LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS James Boswell of Auchinleck, Esqe 146 Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Engrayed by John Jones. Samuel Johnson in a Tie- Wig 150 Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Engraved by Zobel Inscription to Rev. William J. Temple, from James Boswell 159 Title of Mason's "Elfrida." First Edition . . .163 MS. OF Boswell's Agreement with Mr. Dilly, recit- ing THE Terms agreed on for the Publication of "Corsica" 167 MS. Indorsement by Boswell on the First Paper drawn BY HIM as an Advocate 168 Dr. Johnson in Traveling Dress, as described in Boswell's "Tour" 174 Engraved by Trotter. Inscription to James Boswell, Junior, from James Boswell 176 Samuel Johnson 184 Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Engraved by Heath. Inscription to Edmund Burke, by James Boswell . . 185 Mrs. Piozzi ... 186 Engraved by Ridley from a miniature. Extract from MS. Letter of Mrs. Thrale . . . 191 Title of Miss Burney's "Evelina." First Edition . . 199 Mrs. Thrale's Breakfast-Table 200 Samuel Johnson. The "Streatham Portrait" . . .204 Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Engraved by Doughty. MS. Inscriptions by Mrs. Thrale 206 ! Title of "The Prince of Abissinia" ("Rasselas"). First Edition 207 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xxi MS. OF THE Last Page of Mks. Thrale's "Journal of a Tour in Wales" 219 Miss Amy Lowell, of Boston 222 Samuel Johnson 225 William Godwin, the Ridiculous Philosopher . . 227 Charles Lamb's Play-Bill of Godwin's "Antonio " . 236 MS. Letter from William Godwin 241 Anthony Trollope 250 From a photograph by Elliot and Fry. Temple Bar as it is To-Day 268 Old Temple Bar: Demolished in 1666 276 Temple Bar in Dr. Johnson's Time 280 Temple Bar 291 First Page of Dr. Johnson's Petition to the King on Behalf of Dr. Dodd 306 Mr. Allen's Copt of the Last Letter Dr. Dodd sent Dr. Johnson 312 Caricature of Oscar Wilde 319 From an original drawing by Aubrey Beardsley. "Our Oscar" as he was whSn we loaned him to America Prom a contemporary English caricature. MS. Inscription to J. E. Dickinson, from Oscar Wilde . Harry Elkins Widener 344 Title of Stevenson's "Memoirs OF Himself" . . .349 Printed for private distribution only, by Mr. Widener. Beverly Chew 350 Henry E. Huntington among his Books .... 352 Photographed by Genthe. Harry Elkjns Widener's Book-Plate . , . . , . 355 THE AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING AND KINDRED AFFECTIONS I BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD If my early training has been correct, which I am much inclined to doubt, we were not designed to be happy in this world. We were simply placed here to be tried, and doubtless we are — it is a trying place. It is, however, the only world we are sure of; so, in spite of our training, we endeavor to make the best of it, and have invented a lot of little tricks with which to beguile the time. The approved time-kiUer is work, and we do a lot of it. When it is quite unnecessary, we say it is in the interest of civilization; and occasionally work is done on so high a plane that it becomes sport, and we call these sportsmen, "Captains of Industry." One of them once told me that making money was the finest sport in the world. This was before the rules of the game were changed. But for the relaxation of those whose life is spent in a, persistent effort to make ends meet, games of skill, games of chance, and kissing games have been invented, and indoor and outdoor sports. These are 2 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTIKG all very well for those who can play them; but I am like the little boy who declined to play Old Maid be- cause he was always "it." Having early discovered that I was always "it" in every game, I decided to take my recreation in another way. I read occasion- ally and have always been a collector. Many years ago, in an effort to make conversation on a train, — a foolish thing to do, — I asked a man what he did with his leisure, and his reply was, "I play cards. I used to read a good deal but I wanted some- thing to occupy my mind, so I took to cards." It was a disconcerting answer. It may be admitted that not all of us can read all the time. For those who cannot and for those to whom sport in any form is a burden not to be endured, there is one remaining form of exercise, the riding of a hobby — collecting, it is called; and the world is so full of such wonderful things that we collectors should be as happy as kings. Horace Greeley once said, "Young man, go West." I give advice as valuable and more easily followed: I say. Young man, get a hobby; preferably get two, one for indoors and one for out; get a pair of hobby-horses that can safely be ridden in opposite directions. We collectors strive to make converts; we want others to enjoy what we enjoy; and I may as well con- fess that the envy shown by our fellow collectors when we display our treasures is not annoying to us. But, speaking generally, we are a bearable lot, our hobbies are usually harmless, and if we loathe the BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 3 subject of automobiles, and especially discussion rela- tive to parts thereof, we try to show an intelligent interest in another's hobby, even if it happen to be a collection of postage-stamps. Our own hobby may be, probably is, ridiculous to some one else, but in all the wide range of human interest, from postage- stamps to paintings, — the sport of the millionaire, — there is nothing that begins so easily and takes us so far as the collecting of books. And hear me. If you would know the delight of book-collecting, begin with something else, I care not what. Book-collecting has all the advantages of other hobbies without their drawbacks. The pleasure of acquisition is common to all — that's where the sport lies; but the strain of the possession of books is almost nothing; a tight, dry closet will serve to house them, if need be. It is not so with flowers. They are a constant care. Some one once wrote a poem about "old books and fresh flowers." It lUted along very nicely; but I re- mark that books stay old, indeed get older, and flowers do not stay fresh: a little too much rain, a little too much sun, and it is all over. Pets die too, in spite of constant care — perhaps by reason of it. To quiet a teething dog I once took him, her, it, to my room for the night and slept soundly. Next morning I found that the dog had committed suicide by jumping out of the window. The joys of rugs are a delusion and a snare. They cannot be picked up here and there, tucked in a 4 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING traveling-bag, and smuggled into the house; they are hard to transport, there are no auction records against them, and the rug market knows no bottom. I never yet heard a man admit paying a fair price for a rug, much less a high one. "Look at this Schera- zak," a friend remarks; "I paid only nine dollars for it and it's worth five hundred if it's worth a penny." When he is compelled to sell his collection, owing to an unlucky turn in the market, it brings seventeen-fif ty. And rugs are ever a loafing place for moths — But that's a chapter by itself. Worst of all, there is no literature about them. I know very well that there are books about rugs; I own some. But as all books are not literature, so all literature is not in books. Can a rug-collector enjoy a catalogue.'' I sometimes think that for the over- worked business man a book-catalogue is the best reading there is. Did you ever see a rug-collector, pencil in hand, poring over a rug-catalogue.'' Print-catalogues there are; and now I warm a lit- tle. They give descriptions that mean something; a scene may have a reminiscent value, a portrait sug- gests a study in biography. Then there are dimen- sions for those who are fond of figures and states and margins, and the most ignorant banker will tell you that a wide margin is always better than a narrow one. Prices, too, can be looked up and compared, and results, satisfactory or otherwise, recorded. Prints, too, can be snugly housed in portfolios. But for a lasting hobby give me books. BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 5 Book-collectors are constantly being ridiculed by scholars for the pains they take and the money they spend on first editions of their favorite authors; and it must be that they smart under the criticism, for they are always explaining, and attempting rather foolishly to justify their position. Would it not be better to say, as Leslie Stephen did of Dr. Johnson's rough sayings, that " it is quite useless to defend them to any one who cannot enjoy them without defense"? I am not partial to the "books which no gentle- man's library should be without," fashionable a gen- eration or two ago. The works of Thomas Frognall Dibdin do not greatly interest me, and where will one find room to-day for Audubon's "Birds" or Roberts's ' ' Holy Land ' ' except on a billiard-table or under a bed ? The very great books of the past have become so rare, so high-priced, that it is almost useless for the ordinary collector to hope ever to own them, and fash- ion changes in book-collecting as in everything else. Aldines and Elzevirs are no longer sought. Our in- terest in the Classics being somewhat abated, we pass them over in favor of books which, we tell ourselves, we expect some day to read, the books written by men of whose lives we know something. I would rather have a "Paradise Lost" with the first title-page,^ in ^ The facsimile (page 6) is from the first edition, with the first title-page. From the Hagen collection. Mr. Hagen has written on the fly-leaf, " Rebomid from original caJf binding which was too far gone to repair." In the process of binding it was seen that the title-page was part of a signature and not a separate leaf as in the case of the issue with the " Second " title, 1667, which would seem to settle the priority of these two titles. Paradife loft. POEM Written in TEN BOOKS By JOHN MILTON. Licenfed and Entred acccMxJing to Order. L If D -N Printed, and are to be fold by Tetir Parl{er under Creed Church neer AUgate \ And by Rtbert Boiitterx die Tm^j Heai\a Bilhepf^ati-firiH; And BkiAim Walip , undec St. Dia^tin Chiudi BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 7 contemporary binding, or an "Angler," than all the Aldines and Elzevirs ever printed. That this feeling is general, accounts, I take it, for the excessively high prices now being paid for first editions of modern authors like Shelley, Keats, Lamb, and, to come right down to our own day, Stevenson. Would not these authors be amazed could they know in what esteem they are held, and what fabulous prices are paid for volumes which, when they were published, fell almost stillborn from the press? We all know the story of Fitzgerald's "Rubaiyat": how a "remainder" was sold by Quaritch at a penny the copy. It is now worth its weight in gold, and Keats's "Endymion," once a "remainder" bought by a Lon- don bookseller at fourpence, now commands several hundred dollars. I paid three hundred and sixty dol- lars for mine — but it was once Wordsworth's and has his name on the title-page. But it is well in book-collecting, while not omitting the present, never to neglect the past. "Old books are best," says Beverly Chew, beloved of all col- lectors; and I recall Lowell's remark: "There is a sense of security in an old book which time has criticized for us." It was a recollection of these sayings that prompted me,' if prompting was necessary, to pay a fabulous price the other day for a copy of "Hesper- ides, or the Works both Humane and Divine of Robert Herrick, Esq.," a be,autiful copy of the first edition in the original sheep. We collectors know the saying of Bacon: "Some 8 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed and some few to be chewed and digested "; but the revised version is, Some books are to be read, others are to be collected. Mere reading books, the five-foot shelf, or the hundred best, every one knows at least by name. But at the' moment I am concerned with collectors' books and the amenities of book-collecting; for, frankly, — I am one of those who seek What Bibliomaniacs love. Some subjects are not for me. Sydney Smith's question, "Who reads an American book.?" has, I am sure, been answered; and I am equally sure that I do not know what the answer is. "Americana" — which was not what Sydney Smith meant — have never caught me, nor has "black letter." It is not necessary for me to study how to tell a Caxton. Cax- tons do not fall in my way, except single leaves now and then, and these I take as Goldsmith took his religion, on faith. Nor am I the rival of the man who buys all his books from Quaritch. Buying from Quaritch is rather too much like the German idea of hunting: namely, sitting in an easy chair near a breach in the wall through which game, big or little, is shooed within easy reach of your gun. No, my idea of collecting is "watchful waiting," in season and out, in places likely and unlikely, most of all in London. But one need not begin in London : one can begin wherever pne has pitched one's tent. BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 9 I have long wanted Franklin's "Cato Major." A copy was found not long ago in a farmhouse garret in my own county; but, unluckily, I did not hear of it until its price, through successive hands, had reached three hundred dollars. But if one does not be- gin in London, one ends there. It is the great market of the world for collectors' books — the best market, not neces- sarily the cheapest. My first purchase was a Bohn edition of Pope's Homer, the Iliad and the Odyssey in two vol- umes — not a bad start for a boy; and under my youthful signature, with a fine flourish, is the date, 1882. I read them with de- light, and was sorry when I learned that Pope is by no means Homer. I have been a little chary about reading ever since. We collectors' might just as well wait until scholars settle these questions. I have always liked Pope. In reading him one has the sense of progress from idea to idea, not a mere floundering about in Arcady amid star-stuff. When M. T. CICERO»s CATO MAJOR, OR. HIS DISCOURSE OLD-AGE: With Explanatory NOTES. Friated and Sold hf B. FRANKLIN, MDCCXLIV. 10 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING Dr. Johnson was asked what poetry is, he replied, "It is much easier to say. what it is not." He was sparring for time and finally remarked, "If Pope is not poetry it is useless to look for it." Years later, when I learned from Oscar Wilde that there are two ways of disliking poetry, — one is to dislike it, and the other, to like Pope, — I found that I was not entirely prepared to change my mind about Pope. In 1884 I went to London for the first time, and there I fell under the lure of Dr. Johnson and Charles Lamb. After that, the deluge! The London of 1884 was the London of Dickens. There have been greater changes since I first wan- dered in the purlieus of the Strand and Holborn than there were in the hundred years before. Dickens's London has vanished almost as completely as the Lon- don of Johnson. One landmark after another disap- peared, until finally the County Council made one grand sweep with Aldwych and Kingsway. But never to be forgotten are the rambles I enjoyed with my first bookseller, Fred Hutt of Clement's Inn Passage, sub- sequently of Red Lion Passage, now no more. Poor fellow! when, early in 1914, I went to look him up, I found that he had passed away, and his shop was being dismantled. He was the last of three brothers, all booksellers. From Hutt I received my first lesson in bibli- ography; from him I bought my first "Christmas Carol," with "Stave 1," not "Stave One," and with BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 11 the green end-papers. I winced at the price: it was thirty shillings. I saw one marked twenty guineas not long ago. From Hutt, too, I got a copy of Swin- burne's "Poems and Ballads," 1866, with the Moxon imprint, and had pointed out to me the curious eccen- tricity of type on page 222. I did not then take his advice and pay something over two pounds for a copy of "Desperate Remedies." It seemed wiser to wait until the price reached forty pounds, which I sub- sequently paid for it. But I did buy from him for five shillings an autograph letter of Thomas Hardy to his first publisher, " old Tinsley." As the details throw some light on the subject of Hardy's first book, I reproduce the letter, from which it will be seen that Hardy financed the publication himself. When, thirty years ago, I picked up my Hardy letter for a few shillings, I never supposed that the time would come when I would own the complete manuscript of one of his most famous novels. Yet so it is. Not long since, quite unexpectedly, the orig- inal draft of "Far from the Madding Crowd" turned up in London. Its author, when informed of its dis- covery, wrote saying that he had "supposed the manuscript had been pulped ages ago." One page only was missing; Mr. Hardy supplied it. Then arose the question of ownership, which was grace- fully settled by sending it to the auction-room, the proceeds of the sale to go to the British Red Cross. I cannot say that the bookseller who bought it gave it to me exactly, but we both agree that it is an item ^, S(a^iJ y^^ tXL^ ^^/i^^ ^ /«^^ * ^ ^^^ ■wrafc./AA^ 44^ A^^ J ^4,j^^ /^^i^ ilS", (c.Ct ^,At*^>>tyi^ lie ^j^jOxJUXi.^ 'is't^ £/(n LETTER OE THOMAS HAKDT TO HIS FIRST PUBWSHEE, " OLD TINSLEY " I paid five sMUings for this letter many years ago, in London. Maggs, in his last' catalogue, prices at fifteen guineas a much less interesting letter from Hardy to Arthur Symons, dated December 4, 1915, on the same subject. BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 13 which does honor to any collection. Although it is the original draft, there are very few corrections or interlineations, the page reproduced (see next page) being fairly representative. Only those who are trying to complete their sets of Hardy know how difficult it is to find " Desperate Remedies" and "Under the Greenwood Tree" "in cloth as issued." My love for book-collecting and my love for Lon- don have gone hand in hand. From the first, London with its wealth of literary and historic interest has held me; there has never been a time, not even on that gloomy December day twenty years ago, when, with injuries subsequently diagnosed as a "compound comminuted tibia and fibula," I was picked out of an overturned cab and taken to St. Bartholomew's Hos- pital for repairs, that I could not say with Boswell, "There is a city called London for which I have as violent an affection as the most romantic lover ever had for his mistress," The book-shops of London have been the subject of many a song in prose and verse. Every taste and pocket can be satisfied. I have ransacked the wretched little shops to be foimd in the by-streets of Holborn one day, and the next have browsed in the artificially stimulated pastures of Grafton Street and Bond Street, and with as much delight in one as in the other. I cannot say that "I was 'broke' in London in the fall of '89," for the simple reason that I was not in ^*4r. /U /t^oMbx trj 'Ui AAjis,&v, iics^^n^ /^e^.tnpj ^ A huu^ i^ /aca. £^t ^U cUin fl/^ «y'''^'»*4%nJ/iy *^y4/C^>i>-« ^. /&£>^ Lft^l^, t^thA tfflLci ii^tA^^ /U UVH^ rf»U«>'<^<<»i*J ^iSviX OcA't fe^, m'y AAu-^'i^ )t^U*i.^ ^ attain , A«^ <«»< ^X^ ^^^tZt* r.Tr,c ,.„ BERNARD QUARITCH " The extensive literature of catalogues is probably little known to most readers. I do not pretend to claim a thorough acquaintance with it but I know the luxury of read- ing good catalogues and such are those of Bernard Quaritch." — Oliver Wendell Holmes. BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAI^ 15 London that year; but I am never long in London without finding myself as light in heart and pocket as Eugene Field — the result of yieldiag to the same temptations. I knew the elder Quaritch well, and over a cup of tea one winter afternoon years ago, in a cold, dingy little room filled with priceless volmnes in the old shop in Piccadilly, he confided to me his fears for his son Alfred. This remarkable old man, who has well been called the Napoleon of booksellers, was cer- tain that Alfred would never be able to carry on the business when he was gone. "He has no interest in books, he is not willing to work hard as he will have to, to maintain the standing I have secured as the greatest bookseller in the world." Quaritch was very proud, and justly, of his eminence. How little the old man knew that this son, when the time came, would step into his father's shoes and stretch them. AKred, when he inherited the business, assumed his father's first name and showed all his fa- ther's enthusiasm and shrewdness. He probably sur- prised himself, as he surprised the world, by adding lustre to the name of Bernard Quaritch, so that, when he died, the newspapers of the English-speaking world gave the details of his life and death as matters of general interest. The book-lovers' happy hunting ground is the Charing Cross Road. It is a dirty and sordid street, too new to be picturesque; but almost every other shop on both sides of the street is a bookshop, and the 16 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING patient man is frequently rewarded by a find of pecu- liar interest. One day, a few years ago, I picked up two square folio volumes of manuscript bound in old, soft mo- rocco, grown shabby from knocking about. The title was "Lyford Redivivus, or A Grandame's Garrulity." Examination showed me that it was a sort of dic- tionary of proper names. In one volume there were countless changes and erasures; the other was evi- dently a fair copy. Although there was no name in either volume to suggest the author, it needed no second glance to see that both were written in the clear, bold hand of Mrs. Piozzi. The price was but trifling, and I promptly paid it and carried the vol- umes home. Some months later, I was reading a little volume, "Piozziana," by Edward Mangin, — the first book about Mrs. Thrale-Piozzi, — when, to my surprise, my eye met the following: — § a M q a a 3 O P< BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 17 Early in the year 1815, I called on her [Mrs. Piozzi] then resident in Bath, to examine a manuscript which she informed me she was preparing for the press. After a short conversation, we sat down to a table on which lay two manuscript volumes, one of them, the fair copy of her work, in her own incomparably fine hand-writing. The title was "Lyford Redivivus"; the i^ea being taken from a diminutive old wlume, printed in 1657, and profess- ing to be an alphabetical account of the names of men and women, and their derivations. Her work was somewhat on this plan: the Christian or first name given. Charity, for instance, followed by its etymology; anecdotes of the emiaent or obscure, who have borne the appellation; ap- pUcable epigrams, biographickl sketches, short poetical illustrations, &c. I read over twelve or fourteen articles and found them exceedingly interesting; abounding in spirit, and novelty; and all supported by quotations in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Italian, French, Celtic, and Saxon. There was a learned air over all, and in every page, nnuch information, ably compressed, and forming what I should have supposed, an excellent popular volume. She was now seventy-five; and I naturally complimented her, not only on the work in question, but on the amazing beauty and variety of her hand-writing. She seemed gratified and desired me to mention the MS. to some London publisher. This I after- wards did, and sent the work to one alike distinguished for discernment and Uberality, but with whom we could not come to an agreement. I have heard no more of "Ly- ford Redivivus" since, and know not in whose hands the MS. may now be. A moment later it was in mine, and I was examin- ing it with renewed interest. My secret is out. I collect, as I can, human-interest books — books with a provenance, as they are called; 18 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING but as I object to foreign words, I once asked a Bryn Mawr professor, Dr. Holbrook, to give me an English equivalent. "I should have to make one," he said. "You know the word whereabouts, I suppose." I ad- mitted that I did. "How would whenceahouts do.?" I thought it good. In recent years, presentation, or association, books have become the rage, and the reason is plain. Every one is imique, though some are imiquer than others. My advice to any one who may be tempted by some volume with an inscription of the author on its fly- leaf or title-page is, "Yield with coy submission" — and at once. While such books make frightful inroads on one's bank account, I have regretted only my economies, never my extravagances. I was glancing the other day over Arnold's "Record of Books and Letters." He paid in 1895 seventy-one dollars for a presentation Keats's "Poems," 1817, a,nd sold it at auction in 1901 for five hundred.^ A few years later I was offered a presentation copy of the work, with an inscription to Keats's intimate friends, Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke, for a thousand dollars, and while I was doing some preliminary financing the book disappeared, and forever; and I have never ceased regretting that the dedication copy of Boswell's "Life of Johnson," to Sir Joshua Rey- nolds, passed into the collection of my lamented "■ See infra, chapter m, p. 104, where the further adventures of this book are related, and where its price at the Hagen sale. May 14, 1918, becomes $1950, with A. E. N. as the bidder-up. BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 19 friend, Harry Widener,- rather than into my own. "I shall not pass this way again" seems written in these volumes. But my record is not all of defeats. The "whence- abouts" of my presentation "Vanity Fair" is not without interest — its story is told in Wilson's "Thackeray in the United States." The great man took particular delight in schoolboys. When, during his lecturing tour, he visited Philadelphia, he presented one of these boys with a five-dollar gold- piece. The boy's mother objected to his pocketing the coin, and Thackeray vainly endeavored to convince her that this species of beneficence was a thing of course in England. After a discussion the coin was returned, but three months later the lad was made happy by the receipt of a copy of " Vanity Fair," across the title-page of which he saw written, in a curiously small and delicate hand, his name, Henry Reed, with W. M. Thackeray's kind regards, April, 1856. One day, some years ago, while strolling through Piccadilly, my attention was attracted by a news- paper clipping posted on the window of a bookshop, which called attention to a holograph volume of Johnson-Dodd letters on exhibition within. I spent several hours in careful examination of it, and, al- though the price asked was not inconsiderable, it was not high in view of the unusual interest of the volume. I felt that I must own it. When I am going to be extravagant I always like the encouragement of my wife, and I usually get it. I determined to talk over with her my proposed pur- so AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING chase. Her prophetic instinct in this instance was against it. She reminded me that the business out- look was not good when we left home, and that the reports received since were anything but encouraging. "That amount of money," she said, "may be very useful when you get home." The advice was good; indeed, her arguments were so unanswerable that I determined not to discuss it further, but to buy it anyhow and say nothing. Early the next morning I went back, and to my great disappointment found that some one more forehanded than I had secured the treasure. My regrets for a time were keen, but on my return to this country I found myself in the height of the 1907 panic. Securities seemed almost worthless and actual money unobtainable; then I con- gratulated my wife on her wisdom, and pointed out what a fine fellow I had been to follow her advice. Six months later, to my great surprise, the collec- tion was again offered me by a bookseller in New York at a price just fifty per cent in advance of the price I had been asked for it in London. The man whq showed it to me was amazed when I told him just when he had bought it and where, and the price he had paid for it. I made a guess that it was ten per cent below the figure at which it had been offered to me. "I am prepared," I said, "to pay you the same price I was originally asked for it in London. You have doubtless shown it to many of your customers and have not found them as foolish in their enthusi- asm over Johnson as I am. You have had your PORTRAIT OF DK. JOHNSON BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. PAINTED ABOUT 1770 FOR JOHNSON'S STEPDAUGHTER, LUCY PORTER Engrai-ed by Watson BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 21 chance to make a big profit; why not accept a small one?" There was some discussion; but as I saw my man weakening, my firmness increased, and it finally ended by my handing him a check and carrying off the treasure. The collection consists of original manuscripts re- lating to the forgery of Dodd, twelve pieces being in Dr. Johnson's handwriting. In 1778 Dr. William Dodd, the "unfortunate" clergyman, as he came to be called, was condemned to death for forging the name of his pupil. Lord Chesterfield, to a bond for forty-two hundred pounds. Through their common friend Edmund Allen, Johnson worked hard to secure Dodd's pardon, writing letters, petitions, and ad- dresses, to be presented by Dodd, in his own or his wife's name, to the King, the Qiieen, and other im- portant persons, Johnson taking every care to con- ceal his own part in the matter. In all there are thirty-two manuscripts relating to the affair. They were evidently used by Sir John Hawkins in his "Life of Johnson," but it is doubtful whether Boswell, al- though he quotes them in part, ever saw the collec- tion.^ Pearson, from his shop in Pall Mall Place, issues catalogues which for size, style, and beauty are un- excelled — they remind one more of publications de luxe than of a bookseller's catalogue. It is almost vain to look for any item under a hundred pounds, and not infrequently they rxm to several thousand. 1 See in^ra, chapter xi, pp. 307Jf. 22 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING A catalogue now on my writing table tells me of a Caxton: "TuUy, His Treatises of Old Age and Friend- ship," one of four known copies, at twenty-five hun- dred pounds; and I'd gladly pay it did my means allow. From Pearson I secured my holograph prayer of Dr. Johnson, of which Birkbeck Hill says: "Having passed into the cabinet of a collector it remaius as yet unpublished." It is dated Ashbourne, Septem- ber 5, 1784 (Johnson died on December 13 of that year), and reads: — Almighty Lord and Merciful Father, to Thee be thanks, and praise for all thy mercies, for the awakening of my mind, the contii;uance of my life, the amendment of my health, and the opportunity now granted of commemo- rating the death of thy Son Jesus Christ, our Mediator and Redeemer. Enable me O Lord to repent truly of my sins — enable me by thy Holy Spirit to lead hereafter a better life. Strengthen my mind against useless perplexities, teach me to form good resolutions and assist me that I may bring them to eflFect, and when Thou shalt finally call me to another state, receive me to everlasting happiness, for the sake of our Lord Jesus Christ, Amen. Prayers in Dr. Johnson's hand are excessively rare. He wrote a large number, modeled evidently upon the beautiful Collects — prose sonnets — of the Church of England Prayer Book; but after publication by their first editor. Dr. George Strahan, in 1785, most of the originals were deposited in the Library of Pem- broke College, Oxford; hence their scarcity. . From Pearson, too, came my beautiful uncut copy SVe^AjtM ^ Chv^'wU ft/ifcX-yW ^MJj9^ 24 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING of "A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland," with a receipt for one hundred pounds in Johnson's handwriting on account of the copyright of the book, and, more interesting still, a brief note to Mrs. Horneck (the mother of Goldsmith's "Jessamy Bride"), reading: "Mr. Johnson sends Mrs. Horneck and the young ladies his best wishes for their health and pleasure in their journey, and hopes his Wife [Johnson's pet name for the young lady] will keep him in her mind. Wednesday, June 13." The date completes the story. Forster states that Goldsmith, in company with the Hornecks, started for Paris in the middle of July, 1770. This was the dear old Doctor's good-bye as the party was setting out. To spend a morning with Mr. Sabin, the elder, in his shop in Bond Street is a delight never to be for- gotten. The richest and rarest volumes are spread out before you as unaffectedly as if they were the last best-sellers. You are never importuned to buy; on the contrary, even when his treasures are within your reach, it is difl5cult to get him to part with them. One item which you particularly want is a part of a set held at a king's ransom; some one has the refusal of another. It is possible to do business, but not easy. His son, Frank, occasionally takes advantage of his father's absence to part with a volume or two. He admits the necessity of selling a book sometimes in order that he may buy another. This, I take it, accounts for the fact that he consented to part with a THE WORKS Of that Famous Englifh POET, Mr. Edmond Spenfer. f The FAERY QUEEN, r'/~. i TheSHEPHERDs Cavsndar, [ TheHrsTORVof lRFi.A\n,&c. \Micrciiiuo is .uUcJ, An A C C O U N T of his LIFE; Wifb other new A D T) I T I N S IJCLnl'.d,CJiVo/rf a.|tli 167S. A'oi^rr L' f fhnftie. LONDO.N: ^ Pririt:ed.by Hfnty Hills for Jonathan l-Jivln, at the Three Rofes mL////jirt//'-j?;wf. ii7> ^^000^;: JOHN KEATS'S COPY OF SPENSER'S WORKS BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 25 copy of "The Works of that Famous English Poet, Mr. Edmond Spenser" — the fine old folio of 1679, with the beautiful title-page. A "name on title" or- dinarily does not add to a book's value; but when that name is "John Keats" in the poet's hand, and in addition, "Severn's gift, 1818," one is justified in feeling elated. John Keats ! who in the realm of poetry stands next to the great Elizabethans. It was Spenser's " Fairy Queen" which first fired his ambition to write poetry, and his lines in imitation of Spenser are among the first he wrote. At the time of the presentation of this volume, Severn had recently made his acquaintance, and Keats and his friends were steeped in Elizabethan literature. The finest edition of the works of Spenser procurable was no doubt selected by Severn as a gift more likely than any other to be appreciated by the poet. Remember that books from Keats's library, which was comparatively a small one, are at the present time practically non-existent; that among them there could hardly have been one with a more interesting association than this volume of Spenser. Remember too that Keats's poem, — Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song, — was addressed to my great-great-uncle, George Felton Mathew; and let me refer to the fact that on my first visit to England I had spent several .days with his sister, who as a young girl had known Keats well, 26 AMENITIES OF BOOK^COLLECTING and it will be realized that the possession of this treasure made my heart thump. Stimulated and encouraged by this purchase, I successfully angled for one of the rarest items of the recent Browning sale, the portrait of Tennyson read- ing "Maud," a drawing in pen and ink by Rossetti, with a signed inscription on the drawing in the artist's handwriting : — I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood. Browning's inscription is as follows: — Tennyson read his poem of Maud to E.B.B., R,B-5 Ara- bel and Rossetti, on the evening of Thursday, Septr. 27, 1855, at 13 Dorset St., Manchester Square. Rossetti made this sketch of Tennyson as he sat reading to E.B.B., who occupied the other end of the sofa. R.B. March 6, '74. 19 Warwick Crescent. W. M. Rossetti and Miss Browning were also present on this famous evening, which is vivaciously described by Mrs. Browning in aij autograph letter to Mrs. Martin inserted in the albmn. One of the pleasantest things which has happened to us here is the coming down on us of the Laureate, who, being in London for three or four days from the Isle of Wight, spent two of them with us, dined with us, smoked with us, opened his heart to us (and the second bottle of port), and ended by reading "Maud" through from end to end, and going away at half -past two in the ttioming'. If I had had a heart to spare, certainly he would have won mine. He is captivating with his frankness, confidingness, and unex- ampled naivet6! Think of his stopping in "Maud" every PORTRAIT OP TENXYSON, READING "MAUD" TO ROBERT AND MRS. BROWNING, BY ROSSETTI BOOK-COLLECTmG ABROAD 27 now and then — "There's a wonderful touch! That's very tender. How beautiful that is ! " Yes, and it was won- derful, tender, beautiful, and he read exquisitely in a voice like an organ, rather music than speech. Thus are linked indissolubly together the great Victorians: Browning, Tennyson, Rossetti, and Mrs. Browning. It would be difficiilt to procure a more in- teresting memento. At 27 New Oxford Street, West, is a narrow, dingy little shop, which you would never take to be one of the most celebrated bookshops in London — Spen- cer's. How he does it, where he gets them, is his busi- ness, and an inquiry he answers only with a smile; but the fact is, there they are — just the books you have been looking for, presentation copies and others, in cloth and bound. Spencer owes it to book-collec- tors to issue catalogues. They would make delight- ftd reading. He has always promised to do it, but he, as well as we, knows that he never will. But he is kind in another way, if kindness it is: he leaves you alone for hours in that wonderful second- story room, subjected to temptation almost too great to be resisted. Autograph letters, jfirst drafts of well- known poems, rare volumes filled with corrections and notes in the hand of the author, are scattered about; occasionally, such an invaluable item as the complete manuscript of "The Cricket on the Hearth." It was from the table in this room that I picked up one day a rough folder of cardboard tied with red tape and labeled "Lamb." Opening it, I foimd a letter 28 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING from Lamb to Taylor & Hessey, "acknowledging with thanks receit of thirty-two pounds" for the copyright of "Elias (Alas) of last year," signed and dated, June 9, 1824. I felt that it would look well in my presentation "Elia," in boards, uncut, and was not mistaken. My acquaintance with Mr. Dobell I owe to a para- graph that I read many years ago in Labouchere's "Truth." One day this caught my eye: — From the catalogue of a West End Bookseller I note this: "Garrick, David. 'Love in the Suds. A Town Eclogue,' first edition. 1772. Very rare. 5 guineas." The next post brought me a catalogue from Bertram Dobell, the well-known bookseller in the Charing Cross Road. There I read, "Garrick, David. 'Love in the Suds. A Town Eclogue,' first edition, 1772, boards, 18 pence." The purchaser of the former might do well to average by acquiring Mr. Dobell's copy. Old Dobell is in a class by himself — scholar, anti- quarian, poet, and bookseller.^ He is just the type one would expect to find in a shop on the floor of which books are stacked in piles four or five feet high, leav- ing narrow tortuous paths through which one treads one's way with great drifts of books on either side. To reach the shelves is practically impossible, yet out of this confusion I have picked many a rare item. ^ I had a letter from Mr. Dobell early in the war, telling me that business was very bad in his line, and that he had taken to writing bad war-poems, which, he said, was a harmless pastime for a man too old to fight. I am not sure that the writing of bad poetry is a harm- less pastime, and I was just about to write and tell him so, when I read in the Athencewm that he had passed away quite suddenly. BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 29 Don't be discouraged if, on your asking for a certain volume, Mr. Dobell gently replies, " No, sorry." That means simply that he cannot put his mental eye on it at the moment. It, or something as interesting, will come along. Don't hurry; and let me observe that the prices of this eighteenth-century bookshop are of the period. I once sought, for years, a little book of no particu- lar value; but I* wanted it to complete a set. I had about given up all hope of securing a copy when I finally found it in a fashionable shop on Piccadilly. It was marked five guineas, an awful price; but I paid it and put the volume in my pocket. That very day I stumbled across a copy in a better condition at Do- beU's, marked two and six. I bethought me of Labby's advice and "averaged." From Dobell came Wordsworth's copy of "En- dymion"; likewise a first edition of the old-fashioned love-story, "Henrietta Temple," by Disraeli, in- scribed, "To William Beckford with the author's com- pliments," with many pages of useless notes in Beck- ford's hand; he seems to have read the volumes with unnecessary care. Nor should I forget a beautiful copy of Thomson's "Seasons," presented by Byron "To the Hon'ble Frances Wedderburne Webster," with this signed impromptu: — Go! — volume of the Wintry Blast, The yellow Autumn and the virgin Spring. Go ! — ere the Summer's zephyr 's past And lend to loveliness thy lovely Wing. 30 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING The morning's mail of a busy man, marked "per- sonal," takes a wide scope, ranging all the way from polite requests for a loan to brief statements that " a prompt remittance will oblige"; but at the bottom of the pile are the welcome catalogues of the second- hand booksellers — for books, to be ititerestingj must at least be second-hand. Indeed, as with notes oflFered for discount, the greater the number of good indorsers the better. In books, indorsements frequently take the form of bookplates. I am always interested in such a note as this: "From the library of Charles B. Foote, with his bookplate." Auction catalogues come, too. These also must be scanned, but they lack the element which makes the dealers' catalogues so interesting — the prices. With prices omitted, book-auction catalogues are too stimu- latiag. The mind at once begins to range. Doubt takes the place of certainty. The arrival of a catalogue from the Sign of the Caxton Head, Mr. James Tregaskis's shop in High Holbom, in the parish of St.-Giles's-in-the-Field, al- ways suspends business in my oflBce for half an hour; and while I glance rapidly through its pages in search of nuggets, I paraphrase a line out of Boswell, that " Jimmie hath a very pretty wife." Why should n't a book merchant have a pretty wife? The answer is simple: he has, nor are good-looking wives peculiar to this generation of booksellers. Tom Davies, it will be remembered, who, in the back parlor of his bookshop in Henrietta Street, BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 31 Covent Garden, first introduced Boswell to Johnson, had a wife who, we are told, caused the great Doctor to interrupt himself in the Lord's Prayer at the point, "Lead us not into temptation," and whisper to her, with waggish and gallant good humor, "You, my dear, are the cause of this." Like causes still produce like effects. From Tregaskis I secured my " Memoirs of George Psalmana- zar," 1764, an interest- ing book in itself; but its chief value is the signature and note, "Given to H. L. Thrale by Dr. Sam Johnson," I suppose about 1770. Follow- ing Mrs. Thrale's usu- al practice, there are scattered through the volume a number of notes and criticisms in her handwriting. It was Psalmanazar, afterwards discovered to be a notorious old scamp, whose apparent piety so im- pressed Dr. Johnson that he "sought" his company; DR. JOHNSON'S CHURCH, ST. CLEMENT DANES From a pen-and-ink sketch bv Charles G* Osgood 32 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING and of whom he said, "Sir, contradict Psalmanazar! I should as soon think of contradicting a Bishop." Side by side with this volume on my shelves stands the " Historical arid Geographical Description of For- mosa," a work of sheer imagination if ever there was one. My "Haunch of Venison," 1776, in wrappers, un- cut, with the rare portrait of Goldsmith drawn by Bunbury (he married Goldsmith's Little Comedy, it will be remembered), also came from him, as did my "London, A poem in imitation of the third Satire of Juvenal," and the first edition of the first book on London, Stow's "Survay," 1598. From another source came one of the last books on London, "Our House." This book, delightful in itself, is especially interesting to me by reason of the per- sonal inscription of its charming and witty writer: "To A.E.N., a welcome visitor to 'Our House,' from Elizabeth Robins Pennell." Continuing along Holborn citywards, one comes to (and usually passes) the Great Turnstile, a narrow BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 33 court leading into Lincoln's Inn Fields. Here is an- other bookshop that I frequent, — HoUings's, — not for the rarest things, but for the choice little bits which seem almost commonplace when you are buy- ing them, and give so much pleasure when you get them safely on your shelves at home. I never spend a few hours with Mr. Redway, the manager, without thinking of the saying of one of our most delightful essayists, Augustine Birrell, who, to our loss, seems to have forsaken literature for politics: "Second-hand booksellers are a race of men for whom I have the greatest respect; . . . their catalogues are the true textbooks of literature." One sometimes has the pleasure of running across some reference in a catalogue to a book of which one has a better or more interesting copy at half the price. For example, I saw quoted in a catalogue the other day at eighty poimds a "Set of the Life of the Prince Consort, in five volumes, with an inscription in each volume in the autograph of Her Majesty Queen Vic- toria. The first volume being published before Her Majesty was proclaimed Empress of India, she signed as Queen; the other four volumes Her Majesty signed as Queen-Empress." In my collection there are seven volumes, the five mentioned above and two additional volumes, the "Speeches and Addresses" and the "Biography of the Prince Consort." My copies also are signed, but note: the , volume of "Speeches and Addresses" has this intensely personal inscription: — 34 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING To Major General, the Hon. A. Gordon, in recollection of his great, & good master from the beloved Prince's broken hearted Widow Victoria R. OSBOKNE Jan : 12. 1863. The "Biography" has this: — To Major General, The Hon. Alexander Gordon, C.B. in recollection of his dear Master from the great Prince's affectionate and sorrowing Widow, Victoria R. April, 1867. Volume one of the "Life" is inscribed: — To Lieutenant General, The Hon. Sir Alexander Gor- don, K.C.B., in recollection of his dear Master, from January 1875. VICTORIA R. Volume two : — To Lieut. General, The Hon. Sir Alexander Hamilton Gordon, K.C.B., from Victoria R. Dee. 1876. Volume three: — To General, The Hon. Sir Alex. H. Gordon, K.C.B., from Victoria R.I. Dec. 1877. The inscriptions in the last three volumes are identical, except for the dates. All are written in the large, flowing hand with which we are familiar, and indicate a declining scale of grief. Time heals all wounds, and as these volumes appear at intervals, grief is finally assuaged, and Majesty asserts itself. -* — > ^/^'' /^. ap4^. II BOOK-COLLECTING AT HOME In the precedhag chapter I wrote of the amenities of book-collecting in London, of my adventures in the shops of Bond Street and Piccadilly, of Holborn and the Strand — almost as though this paradise of the book-collector were his only happy hunting-ground. But all the good hunting is not found in London: New York has a number of attractive shops, Phila- delphia at least two, while there are several in Chicago and in unexpected places in the West. Where in all the world will you find so free a buyer, always ready to take a chance to turn a volume at a profit, as George D. Smith? He holds the record for having paid the highest price ever paid for a book at auction: fifty thousand dollars for a copy of the Gutenberg Bible, purchased for Mr. Henry E. Hunt- ington at the Hoe sale; and not only did he pay the highest price — he also bought more than any other purchaser of the fine books disposed of at that sale. I have heard Smith's rivals complain that he is not a bookseller in the proper sense of the word — that he buys without discretion and without exact knowledge. Such criticism, I take it, is simply the natural result of jealousy. George D. Smith has sold more fine books than perhaps any two of his rivals. GEORGE D. SMITH " G. D. S." as he is known in the New York Auction Rooms. Like " G. B. S." of Loudon, he is something of an enigma. What are the qualities which hare made him, as he undoubtedly is, the greatest bookseller in the world ? From a photograph by Arnold Genthe BOOK-COLLECTING AT HOME 37 There is no aflfectation of dignity or of knowledge about him, and it is well that there is not. No one knows all there is to know about books; a man might know much more than he — such men there are — and yet lack the qualities which have enabled him to secure and retain the confidence and commissions of his patrons. He is practically the main support of the auction-rooms in this country, and I have frequently seen him leave a sale at which he had purchased every important book that came up. He had knowledge and confidence enough for that, and I cannot see why his frankness and lack of affectation should be counted against him. It takes all kinds of men to make a world, and George is several kinds in himself. Twenty-five years. ago, in London, early in my book-collecting days, I came across a bundle of dusty volumes in an old book-shop in the Strand, — the shop and that part of the Strand have long since dis- appeared, — and bought the lot for, as I remember, two guineas. Subsequently, upon going through the contents carefully, I found that I had acquired what appeared to be quite a valuable little parcel. There were the following: — "Tales from Shakespeare": Baldwin and Cradock, fifth edition, 1831. Lamb's "Prose Works": 3 volumes, Moxon, 1836. "The Letters of Charles Lanlb": 2 volumes, Moxon, 1837; with the inscription, "To J. P. Collier, Esq. from his friend H. C. Robinson." Talf ourd's " Final Memorials of Charles Lamb " : 2 volumes, Moxon, 1848. 38 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING By the way, the last was Wordsworth's copy, with his signature on the title-page of each volume; and I observed for the first time that the book was dedi- cated to him. Loosely inserted in several of the vol- umes were newspaper clippings, a number of pages of manuscript in John Payne Collier's handwriting, a part of a letter from Mary Lamb addressed to Jane Collier, his mother, and in several of the volumes were notes in Collier's handwriting referring to matters in the text: as where, against a reference to Lamb's "Essay on Roast Pig," Collier says, in pencil, "My mother sent the pig to Lamb." Again, where Tal- fourd, referring to an evening with Lamb, says, "We mounted to the top story and were soon seated beside a cheerful fire: hot water and its better adjuncts were soon before us," Collier writes, "Both Lamb and Tal- fourd died of the 'Better Adjuncts.'" There was a large number of such pencil notes. The pages of manuscript in Collier's heavy and, as he calls it, "infirm" hand begin: — In relation to C. Lamb and Southey, Mr. Cosens pos- sesses as interesting a MS. as I know. It is bound as a small quarto, but the writing of Lamb, and chiefly by Southey is post 8vo. They seem to have been contributions to an "Annual Anthology" published by Cottle of Bristol. The MS. begins with an "Advertisement" in the hand- writing of Southey, and it is followed immediately by a poem in Lamb's handwriting headed "Elegy on a Quid of Tobacco," in ten stanzas rhiming alternately thus: — It lay before me on the close grazed grass Beside my path, an old tobacco quid: BOOK-COLLECTING AT HOME 39 And shall I by the mute adviser pass Without one serious thought? now Heaven forbid! * The next day, Collier copied more of the poem, for on another sheet he remarks, "As my hand is steadier to-day I have copied the remaining stanzas." On still another sheet, referring to the Cosens MS., Collier writes: — The whole consists of about sixty leaves chiefly in the handwriting of Southey and it contains . . . productions by Lamb, one a sort of jeu d' esprit called "The Rhedycinian Barbers" on the hair-dressing of twelve young men of Christ Church College, and the other headed, "Dirge for Him Who Shall Deserve It." This has no signature but the whole is in Lamb's clear young hand, and it shows very plainly that he partook, not only of the poetical but of the political feeling of the time. The signatures are various, Erthuryo, Ryalto, Walter, and so forth, and at the end are four Love Elegies and a serious poem by Charles Lamb, entitled, "Living without God in the World." How many of these were printed elsewhere, or in Cottle's "Anthology," I do not know. I would willingly copy more did not my hand fail me. J. P. C. Twenty years later, in New York one day, George D. Smith asked me if I would care to buy an inter- esting volume of Southey MSS., and to my great surprise handed me the identical little quarto which 1 The facsimile is from the original manuscript by Charles Lamb. First published in 1799 in what is usually referred to as Cottle's "An- nual Anthology." The poem is generally attributed to Southey, but it sounds like Lamb, who liked tobacco, whereas Southey did not. The MS., in ten stanzas, is undoubtedly in Lamb's handwriting. fe^t^ ,ytn. &J6Ut I illlllll ■ .111111 II IIIIJ J ^ BOOK-COLLECTING AT HOME 51 PAGAN P.OEMS. GEORGE MOORS', Tried," and "The First Stone," privately printed by the "Unspeakable Scot," already diflScult to procure, are among the latest. For books of the moment, published in small editions which almost im- mediately become scarce,!Drake's shop in Fortieth Street is headquarters; and as my club in New York is near by, I find myself fre- quently dropping in for a book and a bit of gossip. There are draw- backs as well as compensations to living in the coim- try. "Gossip about Book Collecting " has its charms, as William Lormg Andrews has taught us. It is sometimes difficult to get it, living as I do "twelve miles from a lemon"; and so, when I am in New York and have absorbed what I can at Drake's, who is very exact in the in- formation he imparts, I usually call on Gabriel Wells. How Wells receives you with open arms and a good LOMCOITt NEWMAN AND CO., 4J, HART STREET. BLOOMSgUR^ lujcccgcxxt. , BLooMSBURV^yr-e 52 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING cigar, in his lofty rooms on the Avenue overlooking the Library, is known to most collectors. Books in sets are, — perhaps I should say, were, — ^his spe- cialty; recently he has gone in for very choice items, which, when offered, must be secured, or anguish is one's portion thereafter. My last interview with him resulted in my separating myself from a bunch of Liberty Bonds, which I had intended as a solace for my old age; but a few words from Wells convinced me that Dr. Johnson was right when he said, "It is better to live rich than die rich"; and so I walked away with a copy of Blake's "Marriage of Heaven and Hell," which is about as rare a book as one can hope to find at the end of a busy day. It was, if I remember correctly, Ernest Dressel North who first aroused my interest in Lamb, bib- liographically. I had learned to love him in a dumpty little green cloth volume, "Elia and Eliana," published by Moxon, which I had picked up at Leary's, and which bears upon its title-page the glaring inaccu- racy, — "The Only Complete Edition." I have this worthless little volume among my first editions; to me it is one, and it is certainly the last volume of Lamb I would part with. It must be all of thirty years ago that I went to London with a list of books by and about Charles Lamb — some twenty volumes in all — which North had prepared for me. I came across this list not long ago, and was amused at the prices that he suggested I might safely pay. Guineas where his list gives HEAVEN 'h MJh BOOK-COLLECTING AT HOME 53 shillings would not to-day separate the books from their owners. It was at this time, too, that I made my first Lamb pilgrimage, going to every place of interest I could find, from Christ's Hospital, then in Newgate Street, where I saw the Blue-Coat boys at dinner, to the neglected grave in Edmonton Churchyard, where Charles and Mary Lamb lie buried side by side. The illustration facing page 54 is made from a negative I procured in 1890, of the house at Enfield in which Lamb lived from October, 1829, until May, 1833. A good story is told of my friend, Edmund D. Brpoks, the bookseller of far-off Minneapolis. Brooks, who knows his way about London and is as much at home with the talent there as any other man, set out one day to make a "quick turn," in stock-market parlance. Armed with a large sum of money, the sinews of book-buying as well as of war, he casually dropped in on Walter Spenser, who was offering for sale the manuscript of Dickens's " Cricket." The price was known to be pretty steep, but Brooks was pre- pared to pay it. What he did not know was that, in an upper room over Spenser's shop, another book- seller, also with a large sum in pocket, was debating the price of this very item, raising his offer by slow degrees. But it did not take Brooks long to discover that negotiations were progressing and that quick action was necessary. Calling Spenser aside, he in- quired the price, paid the money, and took the in- valuable manuscript away in a taxi. The whole 54 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING transaction had occupied only a couple of minutes. Spenser, then retiu-ned to his first customer, who continued the attack until, to close the argument, Spenser quietly remarked that the manuscript had been sold, paid for, and had passed out of his pos- session. It reminds one of the story of how the late A. J. Cassatt, the master mind of the railroad presidents of his time, bought the Philadelphia, Wilmington & Baltimore Railway right under the nose of Presi- dent Garrett of the Baltimore & Ohio. There were loud cries of anguish from the defeated parties on both occasions, but the book-selling story is not over yet, for a few hours later Sabin, the bookseller de luxe, had the^ Dickens manuscript displayed in his shop-window in Bond Street, and Brooks had a sheaf of crisp Bank of England notes in his pocket, with which to advance negotiations in other directions. I take little or no interest in bindings; I want the book as originally published, in boards uncut, in old sheep, or in cloth, and as clean and fair as may be. I am not without a sense for color, and the backs of books bound in various colored leathers, suitably gilt, placed with some eye for arrangement on the shelves, are to me as beautiful and suggestive as any picture; yet, as one cannot have everything, I yield the beauty and fragrance of leather for the fascination of the "original state as issued." Nor am I unmindful how invariably in binding a book, in trimming, be it ever so little, and gilding its BOOK-COLLECTING AT HOME 55 edges, one lops off no small part of its value. This fact should be pointed out to all young collectors. They should learn to let their books alone, and if they must patronize a binder, have slip-cases or puU-cases made. They serve every purpose. The book will be protected if it is falling apart and unpresentable, and one's craving for color and gilt will be satisfied. As Eckel says in his "Bibliography of Dickens," "The tendency of the modern collector has steadily moved toward books in their original state, — books as they were when created, — and it is doubtful if there will be much deviation from this taste in the future." Only the very immature book-buyer will deprive himself of the pleasure of "collecting," and buy a .complete set of some author he much esteems, in first editions, assembled and bound without care or thought other than to produce a piece of merchandise and sell it for as much as it will fetch. The rich and ignorant buyer should be made to confine his atten- tion to the purchase of "subscription" books. These are produced in quantity especially for his benefit, and he should leave our books alone. The present combination of many rich men and relatively few fine books is slowly working my ruin; I know it is. We live in a law-fuU age, an age in which it seems to be every one's idea to pass laws. I would have a law for the protection of old books, and our legislators in Washington might do much worse than consider this suggestion. One other form of book the collector should be 4itT) INSCRIPTION IN A COPY OF "THE NIGGER OF THE ' NARCISSUS "' BOOK-COLLECTING AT HOME 57 warned against — the extra-illustrated volume. The extra-illustration of a favorite author is a tedious and expensive method of wasting money, and mutilating other books the while. I confess to having a few, but I have bought them at a very small part of what they cost to produce, and I do not encourage their pro- duction. I know something of the art of inlaying prints. I had a distinguished and venerable teacher, the late Ferdinand J. Dreer of Philadelphia, who formed a priceless collection of autographs, which at his death he bequeathed to the Historical Society of Pennsyl- vania. Mr. Dreer was a collector of the old school. He was a friend of John Allan, one of the earliest book-coUectors in this country, of whom a "Memo- rial" was published by the Bradford Club in 1864. Mr. Dreer spent the leisure of years and a small for- tune in inlaying plates and pages of text of such books as he fancied. I remember well as a lad being allowed to pore over his sumptuous extra-Ulustrated books, filled with autograph letters, portraits, and views, for hours at a time. Little did I think that these volumes, the object of such loving care, would be sold at auction. Many years after his death the family decided to dispose of a portion of his library. Stan. Henkels con- ducted the sale. When the well-known volumes came up, I was all in a tremble. It seemed hardly possible that any of the famous Dreer books were to come within my grasp. But alas! fashions change, as I have said before. A "History of the Bank of North 58 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING America," our oldest national bank, which enjoys the unique distinction of not calling itself a national bank, went, not to an officer or director of that sound old Philadelphia institution, but to George D. Smith of New York, for a song — in a high key, but a song nevertheless. An "Oration in Carpenter's Hall" in Philadelphia brought close to a thousand dollars; but, in addition to the rare portraits and views, there were fifty-seven autograph letters in it. Sold separately, they would have brought several times as much. Smith was the buyer. Then there came a "History of Christ Church," full of most interesting material, as "old Christ Church" is the most beautiful and interesting colonial church in America. Where was the rector, where were the wardens and the vestry thereof? No sign of them. Smith was the buyer. The books were going and for almost nothing, in every case to "Smith." At last came the "Memoirs of Nicholas Biddle," of the famous old Bank of the United States. Hear! ye Biddies, if any Biddies there be. There are, in plenty, but not here. Smith, having bought all the rest, stopped when he saw me bidding; the hammer fell, and I was the owner of the most interesting volume in the whole Dreer collection, — the volume I had so often coveted as a boy, with the letters and portraits of Penn, Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Marshall, and so forth, — in all twenty-eight of them, and mine for ten dollars apiece, book, portraits, and binding thrown in. It BOOK-COLLECTING AT HOME 59 is painful to witness the slaughter of another's pos- sessions; it makes one wonder — But that is not what we collect books for. In the last analysis pretty much everything, in- cluding poetry, is merchandise, and every important book sooner or later turns up in the auction rooms. The dozen or jBfty men present represent the book- buyers of the world — you are buying against them. When you sell a book at auction the whole world is your market. This refers, of course, only to important sales. At other times books are frequently disposed of at much less than their real value. These sales it pays the book-collector to attend, personally, if he can; or, better still, to entrust his bid to the auctioneer or to some representative in whom he has confidence. Most profitable of all for the buyer are the sales where furniture, pictures, and rugs are disposed of, with, finally, a few books knocked down by one who knows nothing of their value. Many are the volumes in my library which have been picked up on such occasions for a very few dol- lars, and which are worth infinitely more than I paid for them. I have in mind my copy of the first edition of Boswell's "Corsica," in fine old calf, with the in- scription "To the Right Honourable, the Earl Maris- chal of Scotland, as a mark of sincere regard and affection, from the Author, James Boswell." This stands me only a few dollars. In London I should have been asked — and would have paid — tweiity pounds for it. 60 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING Some men haunt the auction rooms all the time. I do not. I have a living to make and I am not quick in making it; moreover, the spirit of competition in- variably leads me astray, and I never come away with- out finding myself the owner of at least one book, usually a large one, which should properly be en- titled, " What Will He Do With It?" No book-collector should be without a book-plate, and a book-plate once inserted in a volume should never be removed. When the plate is that of a good collector, it constitutes an indorsement, and adds a certain interest and value to the volume. I was once going through the collection of a friend, and observing the absence of a book-plate, I asked him why it was. He replied, "The selection of a book- plate is such a serious matter." It is; and I should never have been able to get one to suit me entirely had not my good friend, Osgood of Princeton, come to my rescue. He was working in my library some years ago on an exquisite appreciation of Johnson, when, noticing on my writing-table a pen-and-ink sketch, he asked, "What's this?" I replied with a sigh that it was a suggestion for a book-plate which I had just received from London. I had described in a letter exactly what I wanted — an association plate strictly in eighteenth- century style. Fleet Street was to be indicated, with Temple Bar in the background. It was to be plain and dignified in treatment. What came was indeed 5 03 X o A. EDWARD NEWTON Hill's Boi-^dl n'l 38 Sirlhebiooraphical pari of lilci'atiirc is what I love moft . ' The book-plate illustrates an incident described in Boswell. Johnson and Gold- smith were walking one day in the Poets' Comer of Westminster Abbey. Looking at the graves, Johnson solemnly repeated a line from a Latin poet, whicli might be freely translated, '* Perchance some day our names will mingle with these." As they strolled home through the Strand, Goldsmith's eye lighted upon the heads of two traitors rotting on the spikes over Temple Bar. Remembering that John- son and he were rather Jacobitic in sentiment, pointing to the heads and giving Johnson's quotation a twist, Goldsmith remarked, "Terhaps some day our heads vpill mingle with those." BOOK-COLLECTING AT HOME 61 a sketch of Fleet Street and very much more. There were scrolls and flourishes, eggs and darts and fleurs- de-lis — a little of everything. In a word it was im- possible. "Let me see what I can do," said Osgood. When I returned home that evening there was wait- ing for me an exquisite pencil sketch, every detail faultless: Fleet Street with its tavern signs, in the background Temple Bar with Johnson and Gold- smith, the latter pointing to it and remarking slyly, "Forsitan et nomen nostrum miscebitur istis." I was delighted, as I had reason to be. In due course, after discussions as to the selection of a suitable motto, we finally agreed on a line out of Boswell: "Sir, the bio- graphical part of literature is what I love most"; and the sketch went off to Sidney Smith of Boston, the distinguished book-plate engraver. I have a fondness for college professors. I must have inherited it from a rich old uncle, from whom I unluckily inherited nothing else, who had a similar weakness for preachers. Let a man, however stupid, once get a license to wear his collar backwards, and the door was flung wide and the table spread. I have often thought what an ecstasy of delight he would have been thrown into had he met a churchman whose rank permitted him to wear his entire ecclesiastical panoply backwards. My weakness for scholars is just such a whimsy. As a rule they are not so indulgent to collectors as they should be. They write books that we buy and read — when we can. My lifelong friend, Felix Schelling 62 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING (in England he would be Sir Felix) is more lenient than most. My copy of his "Elizabethan Drama," which has made him famous among students, is uncut and, I am afraid, to some extent unopened. Frankly, it is too scholarly to read with enjoyment. Indeed, I sometimes think that it was my protest that led him to adopt the easier and smoother style apparent in his later books, "English Literature dur- ing the Lifetime of Shakespeare," and "The English Lyric." Be this as it may, he has shown that he can use the scholarly and the familiar style with equal facility; and when he chooses, he can turn a compli- ment like one of his own sixteenth-century courtiers. I had always doubted that famous book-index story, "Mill, J. S., 'On Liberty'; Ditto, 'On the Floss,'" until one day my friend Tinker sent me a dedication copy of his "Dr. Johnson and Fanny Bumey," in which I read — and knew that he was poking fun at me for my bookish weakness — this: — This copy is a genuine specimen of the first edition, un- cut and unopened, signed and certified by the editor. Chauncet Beewsteb Tinker. No copy is now known to exist of the suppressed first state of the first edition — that in which, instead of the present entry in the index, under Pope, Alexander, page 111, occurred the words, "Pope Alexander 111." How much more valuable this copy would have been if this blimder — "point," the judicious would call it — had not been corrected until the second edition! BOOK-COLLECTING AT HOME 63 The work of my office was interrupted one summer morning several years ago by the receipt of a cable from London, apparently in code, which, I was ad- vised, would not translate. Upon its being submitted to me I found that it did not require translating, but I was not surprised that it was somewhat bewilder- ing to others. It read, "Johnson Piazza Dictionary Pounds Forty Hut." To me it was perfectly clear that Mrs. Thrale-Piozzi's copy of Johnson's Dictionary in two volumes folio was to be had from my friend Hutt for forty pounds. I dispatched the money and in due course received the volumes. Inserted in one of them was a long holograph letter to the Thrales, giving them some excellent advice on the management of their affairs. I think it very probably in your power to lay up eight thousand pounds a year for every year to come, increasing all the time, what needs not be increased, the splendour of all external appearance, and surely such a state is not to be put in yearly hazard for the pleasure of keeping the house full, or the ambition of outbrewing Whitbread. Stop now and you are safe — stop a few years and you may go safely on thereafter, if to go on shall seem worth the while. Johnson's letters, like his talks, are compact with wisdom, and many of them are as easy as the pro- verbial old shoe. Fancy Sam Johnson, the great lexi- cographer, writing to Mrs. Thrale and telling her to come home and take care of him and, as he says, to Come with a whoop, come with a call. Come with a good will, or come not at aU. 64 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING I own thirty or forty Johnson letters, including the one in which he describes what she called his "me- nagerie" — dependents too old, too poor, or too peevish to find asylum elsewhere. He writes, "We have tolerable concord at home, but no love. Wil- liams hates everybody. Levet hates Desmoulines, and does not love Williams. Desmoulines hates them both. Poll loves none of them." But I must be careful. I had firinly resolved not to say anything which would lead any one to suspect that I am Johnson-mad, but I admit that such is the case. I am never without a copy of Boswell. What edition? Any edition. I have them all — the first in boards uncut, for my personal satisfaction; an extra- illustrated copy of the same, for display; Birkbeck Hill's, for reference, and the cheap old Bohn copy which thirty years ago I first read, because I know it by heart. Yes, I can truly say with Leslie Stephen, "My enjoyment of books began and will end with Boswell's 'Life of Johnson.'" "®f)au fool ! to ^nh comsanion^ in a ccouib ! fnto til? room, anb ttete uptin tf)? ftnee^, IBefore tbg I)oaIti${)elte!J, duntbi? tbanfe t|)? &oii, (Xbat ttiou i)a^t fcieni)^ lihe tbtft t " Ill OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES The true book-lover is usually loath to destroy an old book-catalogue. It would not be easy to give a reason for this, unless it is that no sooner has he done so than he has occasion to refer to it. Such catalogues reach me by almost every mail, and I while away many hours in turning over their leaves. Anatole France in his charming story, "The Crime of Sylvestre Bon- nard," makes his dear old book-collector say, "There is no reading more easy, more fascinating, and more delightful than that of a catalogue "; and it is so, for the most part; but some catalogues annoy me ex- ceedingly: those which contain long lists of books that are not books; genealogies; county (and especially town) histories, illustrated with portraits; obsolete medical and scientific books; books on agriculture and diseases of the horse. How it is that any one can make a living by vending such merchandise is beyond me — but so are most things. Living, however, in the country, and going to town every day, I spend much time on the trains, and must have something to read besides newspapers, — who was it who said that reading newspapers is a nervous habit.? — and it is not always convenient to carry a book; so I usually have a few catalogues which I mark industriously, thus presenting a fine imitation of a 66 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING busy man. One check means a book that I own, and T note with interest the prices; another, a book that I would like to have; while yet another indicates a book to which Wder no circumstances would I give a place on my shelves. When my library calls for a ridding up, these slim pamphlets are not discarded as they should be, but are stored in a closet, to be re- ferred to when needed, until at last something must be done to make room for those that came to-day and those that will come to-morrow. On one of these occasional house-clearings I came across a bundle of old catalogues which I have never had it in me to destroy. One of them was published in 1886, by a man I knew well years ago, Charles Hutt, of Clement's Inn Gateway, Strand. Hutt him- self has long since passed away; so has his shop, the Gateway; and, indeed, the Strand itself — his part of it, that is. I sometimes think that the best part of old London has disappeared. Need I say that I refer to Holywell Street and the Clare Market district which lay between the Strand and Lincoln's Inn Fields, which Dickens knew and described so well? Hutt in his day was a man of considerable impor- tance. He was the first London bookseller to realize the direction and value of the American market. Had he lived, my friends Sabin and Spencer and Maggs would have had a serious rival. All the old catalogues before me are alike in one important respect, namely, the uniformly low prices. From the standpoint of to-day the prices were ab- OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 67 surdly low — or are those of to-day absurdly high? I, for one, do not think so. When a man puts pen to paper on the subject of the prices of rare books, he feels — at least I feel — that it is a silly thing to do, — and yet we collectors have been doing it always, or almost always, — to point out that prices have about reached top notch, and that the wise man will wait for the inevitable decline before he separates himself from his money. Now, it is my belief that books, in spite of the high prices that they are bringing in the shops and at auc- tion, have only just begun their advance, and that there is no limit to the prices they will bring as time goes on. The only way to guess the future is to study the past; and such study as I have been able to make leads me to believe that for the really great books the sky is the limit. "The really great books!" What are they, and where are they? I am not sure that I know; they do not often come my way, nor, when they do, am I in a position to compete for them; but as I can be per- fectly happy without an ocean-going yacht, content- ing myself with a motor-boat, so can I make shift to get along without a Gutenberg Bible, without a first foUo of Shakespeare, or any of the quartos, in short, sans any of those books which no millionaire's li- brary can be without. But this I will say, that if I could aflFord to buy them, I would pay any price for the privilege of owning them. A man may be possessed of relatively small means 68 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING and yet indulge himself in all the joys of collecting, if he will deny himseM other things not so important to his happiness. It is a problem in selection, as Elia points out in his essay "Old China," when a weighing for and against and a wearing of old clothes is recom- mended by his sister Bridget, if the twelve or sixteen shillings saved is to enable one to bring home in tri- umph an old folio. As a book-collector. Lamb would not take high rank; but he was a true book-lover, and the books he liked to read he liked to buy. And just here I may be permitted to record how I came across a little poem, in the manuscript of the author, which exactly voices his sentiments — and mine. I was visiting Princeton not long ago, that beauti- ful little city, with its lovely haUs and towers; and interested in libraries as I always am, had secured permission to browse at will among the collections formed by the late Laurence Hutton. After an in- spection of his "Portraits in Plaster," — a collection of death-masks, unique in this country or elsewhere, . — I turned my attention to his association books. It is a difficult lot to classify, and not of overwhelming interest; not to be compared with the Richard Wain Meirs collection of Cruikshank, which has just been bequeathed to the Library; but nothing which is a book is entirely alien to me, and the Hutton books, with their inscriptions from their authors, testifying to their regard for him and to his love of books, are well worth examination. I had opened many volumes at random, and finally OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 69 chanced upon Brander Matthews's "Ballads of Books," a little anthology of bookish poems, for many- years a favorite of mine. Turning to the inscription, I found — what I found; but what interested me particularly was a letter from an English admirer, one Thomas Hutchinson, inclosing some verses, of which I made a copy without the permission of any one. I did not ask the librarian, for he might have referred the question to the trustees, or something; but I did turn to a speaking likeness of "Larry" that hung right over the bookcase and seemed to say, "Why, sure, fellow book-lover; pass on the torch, print any- thiog you please." And these are the verses: — BALLADE OF A POOR BOOK-LOVER I Though in its stem vagaries Fate A poor book-lover me decreed, Perchance mine is a happy state — The books I buy I like to read: To me dear friends they are indeed, But, howe'er enviously I sigh. Of others take I Uttle heed — The books I read I Uke to buy. 11 My depth of purse is not so great Nor yet my bibliophilic greed. That merely buying doth elate: The books I buy I like to read: Still e'en when dawdling in a mead. Beneath a cloudless summer sky. By bank of Thames, or Tyne, or Tweed, The books I read — I like to buy. 70 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING III Some books tho' tooled in style ornate. Yet worms upon their contents feed. Some men about their bindings prate — The books I buy I like to read: Yet some day may my fancy breed My ruin — it may now be nigh — They reap, we know, who sow the seed: The books I read I like to buy. ENVOY Tho' frequently to stall I speed. The books I buy I like to read; Yet wealth to me will never hie — The books I read I like to buy. Two things there are which go to make the price of a book — first the book itself, its scarcity, together with the urgency of the demand for it (a book may be unique and yet practically valueless, because of the fact that no one much cares to have it); and second, the plentifulness of money, or the ease with which its owner may have acquired his fortune. No one will suppose that, at the famous auction in Lon- don something over a hundred years ago, when Earl Spencer bid two thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds for the famous Boccaccio, and the Marquis of Blandford added, imperturbedly, "ten," and secured the prize — no one will suppose that either of the gentlemen had a scanty rent-roll. In England, the days of the great private libraries are over. For generations, indeed for centuries, the English have had the leisure, the inclination, and the OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 71 means to gratify their taste. They once searched the Continent for books and works of art, very much as we now go to England for them. They formed their libraries when books were plentiful and prices low. Moreover, there were fewer collectors than there are to-day. We are paying big prices, — the English never sell except at a profit, — but, all things con- sidered, we are not paying more for the books than they are worth. There are probably now in England as many collectors as there ever were, but neverthe- less the books are coming to this country; and while we may never be able to rival the treasures of the British Museum and the Bodleian, outside the great public libraries the important collections are now in this country, and will remain here. And I am not sure how much longer the London dealers are going to retain their preeminence. We hear of New York becoming the centre of the financial world. It will in time become the centre of the book- selling world as well, the best market in which to buy and in which to sell. With the possible exception of Quaritch, George D. Smith has probably sold as many rare books as any man in the world; while Dr. Rosenbach, on the second floor of his shop in Phila- delphia, has a stock of rare books unequaled by any other dealer in this country. Ask any expert where the great books are, and you will be told, if you do not know already, of the won- ders of Mr. Morgan's collections; of how Mr. Hunt- ington has bought one library after another until he 72 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING has practically everything obtainable; of Mr. William K. Bixby's manuscripts, of Mr. White's collection of the Elizabethans, and of Mr. Folger's Shakespeares. There are as many tastes as there are collectors. Gaxtons and incunabula of any sort are highly re- garded; even the possession of a set of the Shake- speare folios makes a man a marked man, in spite of the fact that Henrietta Bartlett says they are not rare; but then. Miss Bartlett has been browsing on books rarer still, namely, the first quartos, of which there are of "Hamlet" two copies only, one in this country with a title-page, but lacking the last leaf, while the other copy, in the British Museum, has the last leaf but lacks the title-page; and "Venus and Adonis," of the first eight editions of which only thirteen copies are known to exist. All of these are as yet in England, except one copy of the second edition, which is owned by the Elizabethan Club of Yale University. Of "Titus Andronicus" there is only one copy of the first printing, this in the library of H. C. Folger of New York. Surely no one will dis- pute Miss Bartlett's statement that the quartos are rare indeed. But why continue? Enough has been said: the point I want to make is that fifty years from now someone will be regretting that he was not present when a faultless first folio could have been had for the trifling sum of twenty -five thousand dollars, at which figure a dealer is now offering one. Or, glancing over a copy of "Book Prices Current" for 1918, bewail the HENRY E. HUNTINGTON OF NEW YORK A few years ago he conceived the idea of forming the greatest private library in the world. With the help of ■' G. D. S." and assisted by a staff of able librarians, he has accomplished what he set out to do. OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 73 time when presentation copies of Dickens could have been had for the trifling sum of a thousand dollars. Hush ! I feel the spirit of prophecy upon me, I sat with Harry Widener at Anderson's auction rooms a few years ago, on the evening when George D. Smith, acting for Mr. Huntington, paid fifty thousand dollars for a copy of the Gutenberg Bible. No book had ever sold for so great a price, yet I feel sure that Mr. Huntington secured a bargain, and I told him so; but for the average collector such great books as these are mere names, as far above the ordinary man as the moon; and the wise among us never cry for them; we content ourselves with — something else. In collecting, as in everything else, experience is the best teacher. Before we can gain our footing we must make our mistakes and have them pointed out to us, or, by reading, discover them for ourselves. I have a confession to make. Forty years ago I thought that I had the makings of a numismatist in me, and was for a time diligent in collecting coins. In order that they might be readily fastened to a panel covered with velvet, I pierced each one with a small hole, and was much chagrined when I was told that I had ab- solutely ruined the lot, which was worth, perhaps, ten dollars. This was not a high price to pay for the dis- covery I then made and noted, that it is the height of wisdom to leave alone anything of value which may come my way; to repair, inlay, insert, mount, frame, or bind as little as possible. 74 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING This is not to suggest that my library is entirely devoid of books in bindings. A few specimens of the good binders I have, but what I value most is a sound bit of straight-grained crimson morocco covering the "Poems of Mr. Gray" with one of the finest examples of fore-edge painting I have ever seen, representing Stoke Poges Church Yard, the scene of the immortal " Elegy." I was much pleased when I discovered that this binding bore the stamp of Taylor & Hessey, a name I had always associated with first editions of Charles Lamb. How many people have clipped signatureis from old letters and documents, under the mistaken no- tion that they were collecting autographs. I happen to own the receipt for the copyright of the "Essays of Elia." It was signed by Lamb twice, originally; one signature has been cut away. It is a precious possession as it is, but I could wish that the "col- lector" in whose hands it once was had not removed one signature for his "scrapbook" — properly so called. Nor is the race yet dead of those who, in- dulging a vicious taste for subscription books, think that they are forming a library. My coins I have kept as an ever-present reminder of the mistake of my early days. Luckily I escaped the subscription- book stage. What we collect depends as well upon our taste as upon our means, for, given zeal and intelligence, it is surprising how soon one acquires a collection of — whatever it may be — which becomes a source of re- OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 75 laxation and instruction; arid after a little one be- comes, if not exactly expert, at least wise enough to ©scape obvious pitfalls. When experience directs our efforts the chief danger is past. But how much there IS to know! I never leave the company of a man like Dr. Rosenbach, or A. J. Bowden, or the late Luther Livingston, without feeling a sense of hopelessness coming over me. WTiat wonderful memories these men have! how many minute "points" about books they must have indexed, so to speak, in their minds! And there are collectors whose knowledge is equally bewUdering. Mr. White, or Beverly Chew, for ex- ample; and Harry Widener, who, had he lived, would have set a new and, I fear, hopeless standard for us. Not knowing much myself, I have found it wise not to try to beat the expert; it is like trying to beat Wall Street — it cannot be done. How can an outsider with the corner of his mind compete with one who is playing the game ever and always.? The answer is simple — he can't; and he will do well not to try. It is better to confess ignorance and rely upon the word of a reliable dealer, than to endeavor to put one over on him. This method may enable a novice to buy a good horse, although such has not been my experi- ence. I think it was TroUope who remarked that not even a bishop could sell a horse without forgetting that he was a bishop. I think I would rather trust a bookseller than a bishop. And speaking of booksellers, they should be re- garded as Hamlet did his players, as the abstract and 76 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING brief chronicles of the time; and it wovJd be well to remember that their ill report of you while you live is much worse than a bad epitaph after you are dead. Their stock in trade consists, not only in the books they have for sale, but in their knowledge. This may be at your disposal, if you use them after your own honor and dignity; but to live, they must sell books at a profit, and the delightful talk about books which you so much enjoy must, at least occasionally, result in a sale. Go to them for information as a possible customer, and you will find them, as Dr. Johnson said, generous and liberal-minded men; but use them solely as walking encyclopaedias, and you may come to grief. I have on the shelves over yonder a set of Foxe's "Martyrs" in three ponderous volumes, which I sel- dom have occasion to refer to; but in one volume is pasted a clipping from an old newspaper, telling a story of the elder Quaritch. A yoimg lady once entered his shop in Piccadilly and requested to see the great man. She wanted to know all that is to be known of this once famous book, all about editions and prices and "points," of which there are many. Finally, after he had answered questions readily enough for some time, the old man became wise, and remarked, "Now, my dear, if you want to know anything else about this book, my fee will be five guineas." The trans- action was at an end. Had Quaritch been a lawyer and the young lady a stranger, her first question would have resulted in a request for a retainer. OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 77 But I am a long time in coming to my old cata- logues. Let me take one at random, and opening it at the first page, pick out the first item which meets my eye. Here it is : — Alken, Heney — Analysis of the Hunting Field. Wood- cuts and colored illustrations. First edition, royal 8vo. original cloth, uncut. Ackerman, 1846. £2. It was the last work but one of a man who is now "collected" by many who, like myself, would as soon think of riding a zebra as a hunter. My copy cost me $100, while my "Life of Mytton," third edition, I regarded as a bargain at $50. Had I been wise enough to buy it five and thirty years ago, I would have paid about as many shillings for it. "With sporting books in mind it is quite natural to turn to Surtees. His " Jorrocks' Jaunts and Jollities" is missing from this catalogue, but here are a lot of them. "Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour" in full levant morocco, extra, by Tout, for three guineas, and "Ask Mamma" in cloth, uncut, for £2 15s. "Handley Cross" is priced at fifty shillings, and "Facey Rom- ford's Hounds " at two pounds — all first editions, mind you, and for the most part just as you want them, in the original cloth, uncut. My advice would be to forget these prices of yesteryear, and if you want a set of the best sporting novels ever written (I know a charming woman who has read every one of them) go at once to them that sell. But while we are thinking of colored-plate books, let us see what it would have cost us to secure a copy 78 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING of A Beckett's "Comic History of Rome." Here it is, "complete in numbers as originally published," four guineas; while a "Comic History of England," two volumes, boxmd by Riviere from the original parts, in full red levant morocco, extra, cost five guineas. I have tried to read these histories — it cannot be done. It is like reading the not very funny book of an old- time comic opera (always excepting Gilbert's), which depended for its success on the music and the acting — as these books depend on their illustrations by Leech. It is on account of the humor of their wonder- fully caricatured portraits of historic personages, in anachronistic surroundings, that these books live and deserve to live. What could be better than the landing of Julius Caesar on the shores of Albion, from the deck of a channel steamer of Leech's own time? Did you observe that the "History of Rome" was bound up from the original parts? This, according to modem notions, is a mistake. Parts should be left alone — severely alone, I should say. I have no love for books "in parts," and as this is admitted heresy, I should perhaps explain. As is well known, some of the most desired of modern books, "Pickwick" and "Vanity Fair" for example, were so published, and particulars as to one will indicate the reason for my prejudice against all books "in parts." In April, 1916, in New York, the Coggeshall Dickens collection was dispersed, and a copy of "Pick- wick" in parts was advertised, no doubt correctly, as the most nearly perfect copy ever offered at a public OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 79 sale. Two full pages of the catalogue were taken up in a painstaking description of the birthmarks of this famous book. It was, like most of the other great novels, brought out "twenty parts in nineteen," — that is, the last number was a double number, — and with a page of the original manuscript, it brought $5350. When a novel published less than a century ago brings such a price, it must be of extraordinary interest and rarity. Was the price high? Decidedly not! There are said to be not ten such copies in exist- ence. It was in superb condition, and manuscript pages of "Pickwick" do not grow on trees. All the details which go to make up a perfect set can be f oimd in Eckel's "First Editions of Charles Dickens." Briefly, in order to take high rank it is necessary that each part should be clean and perfect and should have the correct imprint and date; it should have the proper number of illustrations by the right artist; and these plates must be original and not reetched, and almost every plate has certain peculiarities which will mislead the unwary. But this is not all. Each part carried certain announcements and advertise- ments. These must be carefully looked to, for they are of the utmost value in determining whether it be an early or a later issue of the first edition. An ad- vertisement of "Rowland and Son's Toilet Prepara- tions" where "Simpson's Pills" should be, might lead to painful discussion. But it is difficult to say whether the possession of a copy of "Pickwick" like the Coggeshall copy is an 80 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING asset or a liability. It must be handled with gloves; the pea-green paper wrappers are very tender, and not everyone who insists on seeing your treasures knows how to treat such a pamphlet; and, horror of horrors! a "part" might get stacked up with a pile of "Outlooks" on the library table, or get mislaid alto- gether. So on the whole I am inclined to leave such books to those whose knowledge of bibliography is more exact than mine, and who would not regard the loss of a "part" as an irretrievable disaster. My preference is to get, when I can, books bound in cloth or boards "as issued." They are sufficiently expensive and can be handled with greater freedom. My library is, in a sense, a circulating library: my books move around with me, and a bound book, in some measure at least, takes care of itself. Having said all of which, I looked upon that Coggeshall "Pickwick," and lusted after it. There is, however, an even greater copy awaiting a purchaser at Rosenbach's. It is a presentation copy in parts, the only one known to exist. Each of the first fourteen parts has Dickens's autograph inscrip- tion, "Mary Hogarth from hers most affectionately," variously signed — in full, "Charles Dickens," with initials, or "The Editor." After the publication of the fourteenth part Miss Hogarth, his sister-in-law, a young girl in her eighteenth year, died suddenly, and the shock of her death was so great that Dickens was obliged to discontinue work upon "Pickwick" for two months. No doubt this is the finest "Pickwick" innoc'enceI iEXPERIENCE \^>ii^^'^^ the lyvo (Jcrttrary ^ tutx^s \ "Blake being unable to find a publisher fbrhis songs, Mrs. Blake went out witb half a crown, all the money they had in the world, and of that laid out Is. lOd. on the simple materials necessary fpr setting in practice the new revelation. Upon that investment of Is. lOd. he started what was to prove a principal means of support through his future life. . . . The poet and his wife did everything in making the book, — writing, designing, printing, engraving, everything except manufacturing the paper. The very ink, or color rather,they did make." — Gilchrist. OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 81 in the world. It has all the "points" and to spare — and the price, well, only a very rich or a very wise man could buy it. But to return to my catalogue. Here is Pierce Egan's "Boxiana," five volumes, 8vo, as clean as new, in the original boards, uncut, — that's my style, — and the price, twelve pounds; three hundred and fifty dollars would be a fair price to-day. And here is the "Anecdotes of the Life and Transactions of Mrs. Margaret Rudd," a notorious woman who just es- caped hanging for forgery, of whom Dr. Johnson once said that he would have gone to see her, but that hcr was prevented from such a frolic by his fear that it would get into the newspapers. I have been looking for it in vain for years; here it is, in new calf, price nine shillings, and Sterne's "Sentimental Journey," first edition, in contemporary calf, for thirty. Let us turn to poetry. Arnold, Matthew, not in- teresting; nothing, it chances, by Blake; his "Poeti- cal Sketches," 1783, has always been excessively rare, only a dozen or so copies are known, and "Songs of Innocence and of Experience," while not so scarce, is much more desired. This lovely book was originally "Songs of Innocence" only, "Experience" came later, as it always does. Of all the books I know, this is the most interesting. It is in very deed*"W. Blake, his book," the author being as well the designer, en- graver, printer, and illuminator of it. To attempt in a paragraph any bibliographical ac- count of the " Songs " is as impossible as to give the 82 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING genealogy of a fairy. In the ordinary sense the book was never published. Blake sold it to such of his friends as would buy, at prices ranging from thirty shillings to two guineas. Later, to help him over a difficulty (and his life was full of difficulties), they paid him perhaps as much as twenty pounds and in retiuTi got a copy glowing with colors and gold. Hence no two copies are exactly alike. It is one of the few books of which a man fortunate enough to own any copy may say, "I like mine best." The price to-day for an average copy is about two thou- sand dollars. I can see clearly now that in order to be up to date there must be a new edition of this book every min- ute. I had just suggested $2000 as the probable price of the "Songs" when a priced copy of the Linnell Catalogue of his Blake Collection reached me. This, the last and greatest Blake collection in England, was sold at auction on March 15, 1918, and accustomed as I am to high prices I was bewildered as I turned its pages. There were two copies of the "Songs"; each brought £735. The "Poetical Sketches" was conspicuous by its absence, while the "Marriage of Heaven and Hell" was knocked down for £756. The drawings for Dante's "Divina Commedia," sixty- eight in all, brought the amazing price of £7665. And these prices will be materially advanced before the booksellers are done with them, as we shall see when their catalogues arrive. We come back to earth with a thud after this lofty flight, in the course s "WTlJii'iC'iJ''/^,.^; 'f5;;-rj^ y,-ii'l7i'^i-.■ U si o* 1^ o t> - a o « 2 o 2 O <1 -(A CO ft " a s OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 83 of which we seem to have been seeing visions and dreaming dreams, much as Blake himself did. Continuing to "beat the track of the alphabet," we reach Bronte and note that now scarce item, "Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell," the gen- uine first edition printed by Hasler in 1846, for Aylott & Jones, before the title-page bore the Smith- Elder imprint; price two pounds five. Walter Hill's last catalogue has a Smith-Elder copy at $12.50, but the right imprint now makes a difference of several hundred dollars. About a year ago Edmund D. Brooks, of Minneapolis, was offering Charlotte Bronte's own copy of the book, with the Aylott and Jones imprint, with some manuscript notes which made it especially interesting to Bronte collectors, the most important of whom, by the way, is my life- long friend, H. H. Bonnell of Philadelphia, whose unrivaled Bronte collection is not unworthy of an honored place in the Bronte Museum at Haworth. I called his attention to it, but he already had a presenta- tion copy to Ebenezer Elliott, the Corn-Law rhymer. Burns: the first Edinburgh edition, for a song; no Kilmarnock edition — that fine old item which every collector wants has always been excessively scarce; and in this connection let me disinter a good story of how one collector secured a copy. The story is told of ' John Allan, from whom, as a collector, I am descended by the process of clasping hands. My old friend, Ferdinand Dreer, for more than sixty years a dis- tinguished collector in Philadelphia, was an intimate 84 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING friend of Allan's, and passed on to me the collecting legends he had received from him. Allan was an old Scotchman, living in New York when the story be- gins, who by his industry had acquired a small for- tune, much of which he spent in the purchase of books. He collected the books of his period and extra- illustrated them. Lives of Mary Queen of Scots, and Byron; Dibdin, of course, and Americana; but Burns was his ruling passion. He had the first Edinburgh edition, and longed for the Kilmarnock — as who does not? He had a standing order for a copy up to seven guineas, which in those days was considered a fair price, and finally one was reported to him from London at eight. He ordered it out, but it was sold before his letter arrived, and he was greatly disap- pointed. Some time afterward a friend from the old country visited him, and as he was sailing, asked if he could do anything for him at home. "Yes," said Allan, "get me, if you possibly can, the Kilmarnock edition of Burns." His friend was instructed as to its scarcity and the price he might have to pay for it. On his return his friend, engaged as usual in his affairs, discovered that one of his workmen was drunk. In those days it was not considered good form to get drunk except on Saturday night. How could he get drunk in the middle of the week.? Where did he get the money.? The answer was that by pawning some books ten shillings had been raised. "And what books had you?" "Oh, Burns and some others; every Scotchman has a copy of Burns." Then, suddenly t P O E M S. ! KILMARNOCK: PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON. MjDCCjLXXXVI. T T T T r 2 i CHIEFLYIN THE t \ \ SCOTTISH DIALECT, ^ ■f T \ BY ^ I ■ ? I ROBERT BURNS. J I ? * T r I ' 5 •<-<-^-i-<"*^-<-<-«-<~«<-«-*'<-«-i"<-<~4-<-«-<<-«-<"<-t-i-«-«-»'< t < * ■ X 5 I ^ THE Simple Bard, unbroke by niks of Art, y. ? He pours the wild effiifions of the heart : ; ; ? And if infpir'd, 'tis Nature's pow'rs infpire ; ^ * Her's all the melting thrill, and her's the kindling fire. i t :: ^ Anonymoos. f t ;: T . I g gij.,- ^(£» ' "»^ ■"^* aait 86 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING remembering his old friend in New York, he asked, "What sort of a copy was it?" "The old Kilmar- nock," was the reply. Not to make the story too long, the pawn-ticket was secured for a guinea, the books redeemed, and the Kilmarnock Burns passed into Allan's possession. After his death his books were sold at auction (1864). This was during our Civil War, and several times the sale was suspended owing to the noise of a passing regiment in the street. Notwithstanding that times were not propitious for book-sales, his friends were astonished at the prices realized: the Burns fetched $106. It was probably a poor copy. A gen- eration or two ago not as much care was paid to con- dition as now. Very few uncut copies are known. One is owned by a man as should n't. Another is in the Burns Museum in Ayrshire, which cost the Museum Trustees a thousand pounds; the Canfield, which was purchased by Harry Widener for six thousand dollars, and the Van Antwerp copy, which, at the sale of his collection in London in 1907, brought seven hundred pounds; but much bibliographical water has gone over the dam since 1907, and for some reason the Van Antwerp books, with the exception of one or two items, did not bring as good prices as they should have done. They were sold at an unfortunate moment and perhaps at the wrong place. In Walter Hill's current catalogue there is a Kilmarnock Burns, in an old binding, which looks very cheap to me at $2600. At the Allan sale an Eliot Bible brought the then enor- OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 87 mous sum of $825. Supposing an Eliot Bible were obtainable to-day, it would bring, no doubt, five thousand dollars, perhaps more. This is a long digression. There are other desired volumes besides Burns. Here is a "Paradise Lost," perhaps not so fine a copy as Sabin is now offering for four hundred pounds; but the price is only thirty pounds; and this reminds me that in Beverly Chew's copy, an exceptionally fine one, as all the books of that fastidious collector are, there is an interesting note made by a former owner to this effect: "This is the first edition of this book and has the first title- page. It is worth nearly ten pounds and is rising in value. 1857." Alphabetically speaking, it is only a step from Mil- ton to Moore, George. Here is his "Flowers of Pas- sion," for which I paid fifteen dollars ten or more years ago — priced at half a crown. But let us take up another catalogue, one which issued from the world-famous shop in Piccadilly, Quaritch's. Forty years ago Quaritch thought it al- most beneath his dignity as a bookseller to offer for sale any except the very rarest books in English; very much as, up to within the last few years, the Univer- sities of Oxford and Cambridge did not think it worth their while to refer more than casually to the glories of English literature. When we open an old Quaritch catalogue, we step out of this age into another, which leads me to observe how remarkable is the change in taste which has come over the collecting world in the 88 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING last fifty years. Formerly it was the fashion to collect extensively books of which few among us now know anything: books' in learned or painful languages, on Philosophy or Religion, as well as those which, for the want of a better name, we call "Classics"; books frequently spoken of, but seldom read. Such books, unless very valuable indeed, no longer find ready buyers. We have come into our great in- heritance. We now dip deep in our "well of English undefyled"; Aldines and Elzevirs have gone out of fashion. Even one of the rarest of them, "Le Pastis- sier Frangois," is not greatly desired; and I take it that the reason for this change is chiefly due to the dif- ference in the type of men who are prominent among the buyers of fine books to-day. Formerly the col- lector was a man, not necessarily with a liberal educa- tion, but with an education entirely different from that which the best educated among us now receive, I doubt if there are in this country to-day half a dozen important bookbuyers who can read Latin with ease, let alone Greek. Of French, German, and Italian some of us have a working knowledge, but most of us prefer to buy books which we can enjoy without con- stant reference to a dictionary. The world is the college of the book-collector of to-day. Many of us are busy men of affairs, familiar, it may be, with the price of oil, or steel, or copper, or coal, or cotton, or, it may be, with the price of the "shares" of all of these and more. Books are our re- laxation. We make it a rule not to buy what we can- OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 89 not read. Some of us indulge the vain hope that time will bring us leisure to acquaint ourselves fully with the contents of all our books. We want books written in our own tongue, and most of us have some pet author or group of authors, or period, it may be, in which we love to lose ourselves and forget the cares of the present. One man may have a collection of Pope, another of Goldsmith, another of Lamb, and so on. The drama has its votaries who are never seen in a theatre; but look into their libraries and you will find everything, from "Ralph Roister Doister" to the " Importance of Being Earnest." And note that these collections are formed by men who are not stu- dents in the accepted sense of the word, but who, in the course of years, have accumulated an immense amount of learning. Clarence L. Bement is a fine example of the collector of to-day, a man of large affairs with the tastes and learning of a scholar. It has always seemed to me that professors of literature and collectors do not intermingle as they should. They might learn much from each other. I yield to no professor in my passion for English literature. My knowledge is deficient and inexact, but what I lack in learning I make up in love. But we are neglecting the Quaritch catalogue. Let us open it at random, as old people used to open their Bibles, and govern their conduct by the first text which met their eyes. Here we are: "Grammatica Graeca," Milan, 1476; the first edition of the first book printed in Greek; one of six known copies. So 90 AMENITIES OP BOOK-COLLECTING it is possible for only six busy men to recreate them- selves after a hard day's work with a first Greek Grammar. Too bad! Here is another: Macrobius, "The Saturnalia" — "a miscellany of criticism and antiquities, full of erudition and very useful, similar in their plan to the 'Noctes Atticse' of Aulus Gellius." No doubt, but as dead as counterfeit money. Here is another: Boethius, "De Consolatione Philoso- phise." Boethius! I seem to have heard of him. Who was he? Not in "Who's Who," obviously. Let us look elsewhere. Ah! "Famous philosopher and oflS- cial in the Court of Theodoric, born about 475 a.d., put to death without trial about 524." They had a short way with philosophers in those days. If Wil- liam the Second to None in Germany had adopted this method with his philosophers, the world might not now be in such a plight. Note : A college professor to whom I was in con- fidence showing these notes the other day, remarked, "I suggest that you soft-pedal that Boethius busi- ness, my boy." (How we middle-aged men love to call each other boys; very much as young boys flat- ter themselves with the phrase, "old man.") "The ' Consolation of Philosophy ' was the best seller for a thousand years or so. Boethius's reputation is not in the making, as yours is, and when made will in all probability not last as long." I thought I detected a slight note of sarcasm in this, but I may have been mistaken. Let us look further. Here we are: "Coryat's Crudi- Fifteenth- century English manuscript on yellum, "De Consolatione Philo- sophise." Rubricated throughout. Its chief interest is the contemporary bind- ing, consisting of the usual oak boards coyered with pink deerskin, let into another piece of deerskin which completely surrounds it and terminates in a large knot. A clasp fastens the outer cover. It was evidently intended to be worn at the girdle. The British Museum possesses verj' few bindings of this character and these service books. Lay books are of even greater rarity. OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 91 ties, hastily gobbled up in five Moneths Trauells." Tom Coryat was a buflfoon and a beggar and a brag- gart, who wrote what has come to be regarded as the first handbook on travel. Browning thought very highly of it, as I remember, and Walter Hill is at this very minute offering his copy of the "Crudities" for five hundred dollars. The catalogues say there are very few perfect copies in existence, in which case I should like to content myseK with Browning's im- perfect copy. I love these old books, written by fraU human beings for human beings frail as myself. Clowns are the true philosophers, and all vagabonds are beloved, most of all, Locke's. Don't confuse my Locke with the fellow who wrote on the "Human Understanding," a century or two ago. Here is the "Ship of Fools," another best seller of a bygone age. The original work, by Sebastian Brandt, was published not long after the invention of printing, in 1494. Edition followed edition, not only in its original Swabian dialect, but. also iu Latin, French, and Dutch. In 1509 an English version, — it could hardly be called a translation, — by Alex- ander Barclay, appeared from the press of Pynson — he who called Caxton "worshipful master." For quite two hundred years it was the rage of the read- ing world. In it the vices and weaknesses of all classes of society were satirized in a manner which gave great delight; and those who could not read were able to enjoy the fine, bold woodcuts with which the work was embellished. No form of folly 92 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING escaped. Even the mediaeval book-collector is made to say: — Still am I busy bookes assemblynge, For to have plentie it is a pleasanut thynge, In my conceyt and to have them ay in hande. But what they mene do I not understande. This is one of the books which can usually be found in a Quaritch catalogue, if it can be found anywhere. At the Hoe sale a copy brought $1825; but the aver- age collector will make shift to get along with an ex- cellent reprint which was published in Edinburgh forty years or so ago, and which can be had for a few shillings, when he chances to come across it. Here is a great book! The first folio of Shakespeare, the cornerstone of every great Library, What's in a name? Did Shakespeare of Stratford write the plays. J* The late Dr. Furness declined to be led into a dis- cussion of this point, wisely remarking, "We have the plays; what difference does it make who wrote them.? " But the question will not down. The latest theory is that Bacon wrote the Psalms of David also, and to disguise the fact tucked in a cryptogram, another name. If you have at hand a King James's version of the Bible, and will turn to the forty-sixth Psalm and count the words from the beginning to the forty-sixth word, and will then count the words from the end until you again come to the forty-sixth. woi;d, ^i^^^\fi you may learn something to your advantage. \i . , . .^^ But, whoever wrote them, the first folio — the £,\n.ai^ plays collected by Heming and Condell, and printed. oww OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 93 in 1623, at the charges of Isaac laggard, and Ed. Blount — is one of the greatest, if not the greatest, volume in all literature. In it not less than twenty- dramas, many of which rank among the literary- masterpieces of the world, were brought together for the first time. Is it any wonder, therefore, that the first folio of Shakespeare, Shakespeare ! "not our poet, but the world's," is so highly regarded? The condi- tion and location of practically every copy in the world is known and recorded. Originally the price is supposed to have been a guinea, and a century passed before collectors and scholars realized that it, like its author, was not for an age, but for all time. In 1792 a copy brought £30, and in 1818 "an original copy in a genuine state" changed hands at £121; but what shall be said of the price it fetches to-day? When, a few years ago, a Philadelphia collector paid the record price of almost twenty thousand dollars, people unlearned in the lore of books ex- pressed amazement that a book should bring so large a sum; but he secured one of the finest copies ia ex- istence, known to collectors as the Locker-Lampson copy, which had been for a short time in the pos- session of William C. Van Antwerp, of New York, who, unluckily for himseK and for the book-collecting world, stopped collecting almost as soon as he began. This splendid folio has now found a permanent rest- ing place in the Widener Memorial Library at Har- vard. It is no doubt inevitable that these notable books should at last come to occupy honored niches 94 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING in great mausoleums, as public libraries really are, but I cannot escape the conviction that Edmond de Goncourt was right when he said in his will : — "My wish is that my drawings, my prints, my curi- osities, my books — in a word these things of art which have been the joy of my life — shall not be consigned to the, cold tomb of a museum, and sub- jected to the stupid glance of the careless passer-by; but I require that they shall all be dispersed under the hammer of the auctioneer, so that the pleasure which the acquiring of each one of them has given me shall be given again, in each case, to some inheritor of my own tastes." I wish that my friends, the Pennells, had followed this course when they gave up their London apart- ments in the Adelphi and disposed of their valuable Whistler collection. But no, with characteristic gen- erosity the whole collection goes to the nation as a gift — the Library of Congress at Washington is to be its resting-place. The demand for Whistler is ever-increasing with his fame which, the Pennells say, will live forever. Those who have a lot of Whistler material smile — the value of their collections is enhanced. Those of us who, like the writer, have to be content with two butterflies, or at most three, sigh and turn aside. Possession is the grave of bliss. No sooner do we own some great book than we want another. The appetite grows by what it feeds on. The Shakespeare folio is a book for show and to be proud of, but we OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 95 want a book to love. Here it is: Walton's "Compleat Angler," beloved by gentle men, such as all collectors are. We welcome the peace and contentment which it suggests, "especially," as its author says, "in such days and times as I have laid aside business and gone a-fishing." Therein lies the charm of this book, for those of us who'are wise enough occasionally to lay aside business and go a-fishing or a-hunting, albeit only book-hunt- ing ;|f or it is the spirit of sport rather than the sport itseK that is important. Old Isaak Walton counted fishermen as honest men. I wonder did he call them truthful.'' If so, there has been a sad falling off since his day, for I seem to remember words to this effect: "The fisherman riseth up early in the morning and disturbeth the whole household. Mighty are his prep- arations. He goeth forth full of hope. Wlien the day is far spent, he returneth, smelling of strong drink, and the truth is not in him." I wish that some day I might discover an "Angler," not on the banks of a stream, but all unsuspected on some book-stall. It is most unlikely; those days are past. I shall never own a first "Angler." This little book has been thumbed out of existence almost, by generations of readers with coarse, wet hands who carried the book in their pockets or left it lying by the river in the excitement of landing a trout. Five im- pressions, all rare, were made before the author died in his "neintyeth" year, and was buried in the South Transept of the Cathedral of William of Wykeham. 96 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLE.CTING But Walton wrote of Fishers of Men as well as of fishing. His lives of John Donne, the Dean of St. Paul's; of Richard Hooker, the "Judicious," as he is usually called, when called at all; of George Herbert, and several other men, honorable in their generation, are quaint and charming. These lives, published orig- inally at intervals of many years, are not rare, nor is the volume of 1670, the first collected edition of the Lives, unless it is a presentation copy. Such a copy sold twenty years ago for fifteen pounds. Some years ago I paid just three times this sum for a copy in- scribed by Walton to the Lord Bishop of Oxford. I did not then know that the Bishop of Oxford was also the famous Dr. John Fell, the hero of the well- known epigram: — I do not like you Dr. Fell, The reason why I cannot tell; But this I know and know full well, I do not like you Dr. Fell, — or I would willingly have paid more for it. But I am wandering from my text. To return to the "Angler." Fifty pounds was a fair price for a fine copy fifty years ago. George D. Smith sold a copy a few weeks since for five thousand dollars, and the Heck- scher copy a few years ago brought thirty-nine hun- dred dollars; but the record price appears to have been paid for the Van Antwerp copy, which is generally believed to be the finest in existence. It is bound in original sheepskin, and was formerly in the library of Frederick Locker-Lampson. It was sold in London €Nl3@i @ei@> &im TEMPLE. SACRED POEMS AND PRIVATE EJA- CULATIONS. By M». Georoe Herbert. PSAL. ip. In his Temple doth every manffeak of his honour. CAMBRIDGE; Printed by Thorn. Buck, and Rpger 7)Mkl,m'mtets to the Univerfitic Id 3 3, i©C3@t The rare iirst edition, and, according to Mr. Livingston in " The Bibliophile," the earlier issue of the two printed in that year. A very large copy. From the Hagen collec- tion. Said to he the finest copy in existence. It is hound in oontempora.ry vellum, and measures 3j) X 6J inches. 98 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING some ten years ago and was purchased by Quariteh for "an American," which was a sort of nom de guerre of the late J. P. Morgan, for £1290. When "Anglers" could be had for fifty pounds, "Vicars" brought ten, or fifteen if in exceptionally fine condition, and the man who then spent this sum for a "Vicar" chose as wisely as did the Vicar's wife her wedding gown, "not for a fine glossy surface, but for qualities as would wear well." These two little volumes, with the Salisbury imprint and a required blunder or two, will soon be worth a thousand dollars. When I paid £120 for mine some years ago, I felt that I was courting ruin, especially when I recalled that Dr. Johnson thought rather well of himself for having secured for Goldsmith just half this sum for the copy- right of it. Boswell's story of the sale of the manu- script of the "Vicar of Wakefield," as Johnson related it to him, is as pretty a bit of bibliographical history as we have. Those who know it will pardon the in- trusion of the story for the sake of the pleasure it may give others. "I received," said Johnson, "one morning a mes- sage from poor Goldsmith that he was in great dis- tress, and as it was not in his power to come to me, begged that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was drest, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had got OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 99 a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it and saw its merit; told the landlady I should soon return, and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill . . . and Sir," continued Johnson, "it was a suf- ficient price, too, when it was sold; for then the fame of Goldsmith had not been elevated, as it afterwards was by his 'Traveller'; and the bookseller had such faint hopes of profit by his bargain, that he kept the manuscript by him a long time, and did not publish it till after 'The Traveller' had appeared. Then, to be sure, it was accidentally worth more money." Here we have a characteristic sketch of the two men — the excitable, amiable, and improvident Goldy, and the wise and kindly Johnson, instantly corking the bottle and getting down to brass tacks, as we should say. The first edition of "Robinson Crusoe" is another favorite book with collectors; as why should it not he? Here is a copy in two volumes (there should be three) in red morocco, super extra, gilt edges, by Bedford. It should be in contemporary caK, but the price was only £46. Turning to a bookseller's cata- logue published a year or two ago, there is a copy 100 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING "3 vols. 8vo. with map and 2 plates, in original calf binding," and the price is twenty-five hundred dollars. A note in one of Stan. Henkel's recent auction catalogues, and there are none better, clears up a point which has always troubled me, and which I will quote at length for the benefit of other collectors who may not have seen it. The supposed "points," signifying the first issues of this famous book, are stumbling-blocks to all bibliographers. Professor W. P. Trent, of Columbia University, un- doubtedly the foremost authority on Defoe, after ex- tended research and the comparison of many copies, states that he is of the opinion that any purchaser enter- ing Taylor's shop at the sign of the Ship, in Pater Noster Row on April 25th, 1719 (usually taken as the date of issue), might have been handed a copy falling imder any of the following categories : — With "apply" in the preface, and "Pilot," on page 343, line 2. With "apply" in the preface, and "Pilate" on page 343. With "apyly " in the preface, and "Pilate" on page 343. With "apyly" in the preface, and "Pilot" on page 343. It is unquestionably wrong, in his opinion, to call any one of these "first issue." Prof. Trent sees no reason to believe that there was a re-issue with "apyly" corrected in the preface. Both these mistakes were quite probably corrected while the sheets were passing through the press, and it depends on how the sheets were collated by the binder what category of the four given any special copy belongs to. This is a great relief to me, as my copy, which was once Congreve's, while leaving nothing to be desired in the matter of condition, binding, and plates, has OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 101 the word "apply" in the preface and "pilot" on page 343; but it is perfectly cleiar, having in mind the spacing of the types, that the longer word has given way to the shorter. There is, however, another edition of "Robinson Crusoe" which, for rarity, puts all first editions in the shade. So immediate was the success of this won- derful romance that it was issued in a newspaper, very much as popular novels are now run. It was published in the "Original London Post," or "Heath- cot's Intelligence," numbers from 125 to 289, Octo- ber 7, 1719, to October 19, 1720. This was publica- tion in parts with a vengeance. Of the entire series of 165 leaves, only one is in facsimile. I see that I have not yet said that I own this copy. There is a copy in the British Museum, but I am told that it is very imperfect, and I know of no other. I was, a few evenings ago, looking over Arnold's "First Report of a Book-Collector." I had just given an old-time year's salary for a manuscript poem by Keats, and I was utterly bewildered by reading this: "Only a few months after I began collecting, more than one hundred pages of original manuscripts of Keats that Were just then offered for sale came in my way and were secured at one-fifth of their value." If the price I paid for one page is any criterion as to the value of one hundred pages, Mr. Arnold is by now a very rich man; and elsewhere in his "Report" he gives a list'of books sold at Sotheby's in 1896 at prices which make one's mouth water. 102 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING Chapman's Homer, 1616, £15; Chaucer's Works, 1542, £15 10; "Robinson Crusoe," 1719-20, £75; Goldsmith's "Vicar," 1766, £65; Goldsmith's "Deserted Village," 1770, £25; Herrick's "Hesperides," 1648, £38. Milton's "Paradise Lost," 1667, £90. But why continue.'' The point of it all is his com- ment: "If the beginner is alarmed by these prices, let him remember that such are paid only for well- known and highly prized rarities"; and remember, too, that this is the comment of an astute collector upon the prices of only twenty years ago. It is, however, only proper to bear in mind, when referring to English auction prices, that the "knock- out" may have been, and probably was, in operation. This time-honored and beneficent custom results in enriching the London book-dealer at the expense of the owner or the estate whose books are being sold. The existence of the "knockout" is pretty generally admitted by the London dealers, but they usually couple the admission with the statement that no re- putable dealer will have anything to do with its operations. It is always the other fellow who is in the ring. Reduced to its simplest terms, a "knock- out" consists of a clique of men who agree that cer- tain books (or anything else) shall be bought at auc- tion without competition. One book, or class of books, shall be bought by A, B will buy another, C another, and so on. At some convenient time or place after the books have been delivered, a second auction is K li ii k Is k T H E R.' I C I. N A J. f.'ur.b. fij- POST. OR I I'cirg i Co)!caiot! of tht , Frefl.eft Advices Foreign and r?omeftick. eiiiicQiy Oftober 7. 1719. The Life and ftr.ngc Adventures of Rehhfun Cnijec ci Tork, Ma- ■ r|n:r ; Who lived Sight and Twety Years alone in an uninha- tfd rfliiid on the Coaft of Americi, near the Mouih of the Great River Ononoijue ; having been cad en Shore byShip- wreclc, wherein all the N'en p^rifticd but himlclf. With iri Account ho«- he was at Uft ftrangely delivered by Pyrarcs. Written by himfelf' The P R E F A C E. [ F ev.-r th: Itrry cj any p/izhi/e Mans y^^V'^rHrrs ;/} f^'f iVor/d vjrre toort^^ mihng Vuhlich^ end were ■.cccf-ij!s a;i/> l>e fo. The Vamlen 'f ihU Man^s Lijc exceed all ihji (he ihjK/cs) is to be found Lxiant j t\'e Lije of one Man being fcarcc (j. pali/r of a gre.arr Variety. *'. Ibe Siotyis teld with A^ffdcjly, wW) Serioujnrfs^ and tuih a rflijicus ■AppUcation vf Events to the Vje ro which wrft Men a/ways app'f ihcm, VIZ to ihe hiiyu&jon of eihers by this txaaple, andta juflify and honour- the Wr/.ipm cf ^nvide/ie in all ibc variety v^ oig CircumlUnces, let them hiij 1 en hiiD I'l'cy «///. Ike tJ'a^-r believes the thi>7g to he a juft Tlijiory of F. a i, neither is there in-/ /.p-'cjrance of TaWon in it : Ahd. however ihrnks, bscaufe alt fi-:} t'-il'^i are difpatched ih.:t the Improvement of it^ as wcii :c tug P-. ' verfjon as to the IrifiruSion of the Reader, voil^ be the fatr.e x and as fu, h, h/t!':r;ksy wihout further CoffipHmcnt to tbc World, he deds tbe/n upett ferv.cf m (he FubliesTicn. im OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 103 held and they are again put up. This time there is real competition, but the profits go into a pool which is equally divided among the members. This custom has taken such a strong hold on the trade that it seems impossible to break it up. Should a private per- son bid at a sale at which the scheme is intended to operate, he would get, either nothing, or books at such a price as would cause him to remember the sale to his dying day. There is nothing analogous to it in this country, and it was to escape from its operations that it was decided to sell the great Hoe collection at Anderson's in New York City a few years ago. Most of the books then sold realized the highest prices ever known. Many of the London dealers were represented, — Quaritch, Maggs, and several others came in person, — and the sale will long be remem- bered in the annals of the trade. After the above explanation it is hardly necessary to say that "Book Auction Records," published by Karslake in London, has no value whatever as a guide to prices, in comparison with "American Book Prices Current," to the compilation of which the late Luther S. Livingston devoted so much of his time — time which we now know should have been spent in doing original work in bibliography. Returning for a moment to Mr. Arnold and his con- tributions to bibliography, he did the booksellers a good turn and helped collectors justify their extrav- agance to their wives by publishing some years ago "A Record of Books and Letters." Mr. Arnold de- 104 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING voted the leisure of six years to forming a collection of books with perseverance and intelligence; then he suddenly stopped and turned over to Bangs & Com- pany, the auctioneers, the greater part of his collec- tion, and awaited the result with interest. I say " with interest" advisedly, for the result fully justified his judgment. In his "Record" he gives the date of ac- quisition, together with the cost of each item, in one column, and in another the selling price. He also states whether the item was bought of a bookseller or a collector, or at auction. He had spent a trifle over ten thousand dollars, and his profit almost exactly equalled his outlay. I said his profit, but I have used the wrong word. His profit was the pleasure he re- ceived in discovering, buying, and owning the treas- ures which for a time were in his possession. The dif- ference in actual money between what he paid and what he received, some ten thousand dollars, was the reward for his industry and courage in paying what doubtless many people supposed to be extravagant prices for his books. Let us examine one only. It is certainly not a fair example, but it happens to interest me. He had a copy of Keats's "Poems," 1817, with an inscription in the poet's handwriting: "My dear Giovanni, I hope your eyes will soon be well enough to read this with pleasure and ease." There were some other inscriptions in Keats's hand, and for this treasure Arnold paid a bookseller, in 1895, seventy-one dollars. At the auction in 1901 it brought five hundred dollars, Wi.a}t tiLhi.A vJLdtj IXu. e^Mvt-i fhtiC tl^ M^i-I/Ulr jui^JJ *L*J£lO/ ^*— »-«^u.j^. ■/>"<' . tUBuJr >UW. (7tMU Kt. Ai*vc> Ct«;e6 ff^j^ ^ ajit Uiyhi.oU fu,r>* "^.^ '•«**■ 'A*^ I ^ -»- ^ ^ '•^'^ ffc^^i. Z*,-^ ^^ ,j^ y ^W (^^rrj^/ ^ tiM^ yiCPtr^ V^^ *^ ^ FACSIMILE, MUCH REDUCED IN SIZE, OP THE LAST* PAGE OF MRS. THKALE'S "JOURNAL OF A TOUR IN WALES," UNDERTAKEN IN THE COMPANY OF DR. JOHNSON IN THE SUMMER OF 1774 220 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING It comprises ninety-seven pages in Mrs. Thrale's beautiful hand, beginning, "On Tuesday, 5tli July, 1774, 1 began my journey through Wales. We set out from Streatham in our coach and four post horses, accompanied by Dr. Johnson and our eldest daughter. Baretti went with us as far as London, where we left him and hiring fresh horses they carried us to the Mitre at Barnet"; and so on throughout the whole tour, until she made this, her final entry: — September 30th. When I rose Mr. Thrale informed me that the Parliament was suddenly dissolved and that all the world was bustle; that we were to go to South wark, not to Streatham, and canvass away. I heard the first part of this report with pleasure, the latter with pain; nothing but a real misfortune could, I think, affect me so much as the thoughts of going to Town thus to settle for the Winter before I have had any enjoyment of Streatham at all; and so all my hopes of pleasure blow away. I thought to have lived in Streatham in quiet and comfort, have kissed my children and cuffed them by turns, and had a place always for them to play in; and here I must be shut up in that odious dungeon, where nobody will come near me, the children are to be sick for want of air, and I am never to see a face but Mr. Johnson's. Oh, what a life that is! and how truly do I abhor it! At noon however I saw my Girls and thought Susan vastly improved. At evening I saw my Boys and liked them very well too. How much is there always to thank God for! But I dare not enjoy poor Streatham lest I should be forced to quit it. I value this little volume highly, as who, interested in the lady, would not? It is an unaffected record of a journey, of interesting people who met interest- A LIGHT-BLUE STOCKING 221 ing people wherever they went, and its pubUcation by Broadley was a pious act. But that the Broadley volume, published a few years ago, gets its chief value from the sympathetic introduction by Thomas Seccombe, must, I think, be admitted. It is no longer the fashion to "blush as well as weep for Mrs. Thrale." This silly phrase is Macaulay's. Rather, as Sir Walter Raleigh remarked to me in going over some of her papers in my library, " What a dear, delightful person she was ! I have always wanted to meet her." In the future, what may be written of Mrs. Thrale will be written in better taste. At this time of day why should she be attacked because she married a man who did not speak English as his mother tongue, and who was a musician rather than a brewer? One may be an enthusiastic admirer of Dr. Johnson — I confess I am — and yet keep a warm place in one's heart for the kindly and charming little woman. Admit that she was not the scholar she thought she was, that she was "inaccurate in narra- tion": what matters it? She was a woman of char- acter, too. She was not overpowered by Dr. Johnson, as was Fanny Burney, to such a degree that at last she came to write like him, only more so. Mrs. Thrale, by her own crisp, vigorous English, influenced the Doctor finally to write as he talked, naturally, without that undue elaboration which was character- istic of his earlier style. If Johnson mellowed under the benign influence of the lady, she was the gainer in knowledge, especially 222 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING in such knowledge as comes from books. It was Mrs. Thrale rather than her husband who formed the Streatham hbrary. Her taste was robust, she baulked at no foreign language, but set about to study it. I have never seen a book from her library — and I have seen many — which was not filled with notes written in her clear and beautiful hand. These vol- umes, like the books which Lamh lent Coleridge, and which he returned with annotations tripling their value, are occasionally offered for sale in those old book-shops where our resolutions not to be tempted; are writ in so much water; or they turn up at auction sales and astonish the uninitiated by the prices they bring. Several of these volumes are in the collection of the writer: her Dictionary, the gift of Dr. Johnson, for instance, and a "Life of Psalmanazar," another gift from the same source; but the book which, above all others, every Johnsonian would wish to own is the property of Miss Amy Lowell of Boston, a poet of rare distinction, a critic, and America's most dis- tinguished woman collector. Who does not envy her the possession of the first edition of Boswell's "Life of Johnson," filled with the marginalia of the one person in the world whose knowledge of the old man rivaled that of the great biographer himself? And to hear Miss Lowell quote these notes in a manner sug- gestive of the charm of Madam Piozzi herself, is a delight never to be forgotten. About the time of the Piozzis' removal to Wales, M. MISS AMY LOWELL, OF BOSTON, POET, CRITIC, AND AMERICA'S MOST DISTINGUISHED WOMAN COLLECTOR A LIGHT-BLUE STOCKING they decided to adopt a nephew, the son of Piozzi's brother, who had met with financial reverses in Italy. The boy had been christened John Salusbury in honor of Mrs. Piozzi, and she became greatly at- tached to the lad and decided to leave him her entire fortune. He was brought up as an English boy, and his education was a matter which gave her serious concern. Meanwhile, the years that had touched the lady so lightly had left their impress upon her husband, who does not seem to have been strong. He was a great sufferer from gout, and finally died, and was buried in the parish church of Tremeirchion, which years before he had caused to be repaired, and had built there a burial vault in which his remains were placed. They had lived in perfect harmony for twenty-five years, thus effectually overturning the prophecies of their friends. She continued to reside at Brynbella until the marriage of her adopted son, when she gen- erously gave him the estate and removed to Bath, that lovely little city where so many celebrities have gone to pass the closing years of eventful lives. As a "Bath cat" she continued her interest in men, women, and books until the end. Having outlived all her old friends, she proceeded to make new; and when nearly eighty astonished everyone by showing great partiality for a yoimg and handsome actor, — and, if reports be true, a very bad actor, — named Conway. There was much smoke and doubtless some fire in the affair: letters purporting to be hers to him 224 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING were published after her death. They may not be genuine, and if they are they show simply, as Leslie Stephen says, that at a very advanced age she be- came silly. On her eightieth birthday she gave a ball to six or seven hundred people in the Assembly Rooms at Bath, and led the dancing herself with her adopted son (who by this time was Sir John Salusbury Piozzi), very much to her satisfaction, A year later she met with an accident, from the eflFects of which she died. She was buried in Tre- meirchion Church beside her husband. A few years ago, on the two hundredth anniversary of the birth of Johnson, a memorial tablet was erected in the quaint old chm-ch, reading, — ^ Near this place are interred the remains of HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI De. Johnson's Mrs. Theale Bom 1741, died 1821 Mrs. Piozzi's life is her most enduring work. Trifles were her serious business, and she was never idle. Always a great letter-writer, she set in motion a correspondence which would have taxed the capac- ity of a secretary with a typewriter. To the last she was a great reader, and observing a remark in Boswell on the irksomeness of books to people of advanced age, she wrote on the margin, "Not to me, at eighty." Her wonderful memory remained imimpaired until A LIGHT-BLUE STOCKING 225 the last. She knew Enghsh hterature well. She spoke French and Italian fluently. Latin she transcribed with ease and grace; of Greek she had a smattering, and she is said to have had a working knowledge of Hebrew; but I suspect that her Hebrew would have set a scholar's hair on end. "With all these accom- plishments, she was not a pedant, or, properly speak- ing, a Blue-Stocking, or if she was, it was of a very light shade of blue. She told a capital story, omitted everything irrelevant and came to the point at once; in brief, she was a man's woman. And to end the argument where it began, — for arguments always end where they begin, — I came across a remark the other day which sums up my contention. It was to the effect that, in whatever company Mrs. Piozzi found herseK, others found her the most charming person in the room. VIII A RIDICULOUS PHILOSOPHER I AM not sure that I know what philosophy is; a phi- losopher is one who practices it, and we have it on high authority that "there was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently." There is an old man in Wilkie CoUins's novel, "The Moonstone," the best novel of its kind in the lan- guage, who, when in doubt, reads "Robinson Crusoe." In like manner I, when in doubt, turn to Boswell's "Life of Johnson," and there I read that the fine, crusty old doctor was hailed in the Strand one day by a man who half a century before had been at Pem- broke College with him. It is not surprising that Johnson did not at first remember his former friend, and he was none too well pleased to be reminded that they were both "old men now." "We are, sir," said Dr. Johnson, "but do not let us discourage one an- other"; and they began to talk over old times and compare notes as to where they stood in the world. Edwards, his friend, had practiced law and had made money, but had spent or given away much of it. "I shall not die rich," said he. "But, sir," said John- son, "it is better to live rich than to die rich." And now comes Edwards's immortal remark, "You are a philosopher, Dr. Johnson. I have tried, too, in my mm? ^i^ THE KIDICULOUS PHILOSOPHEE From a drawiii^ by Maclise 228 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING time to be a philosopher, but I don't know how: cheerfulness was always breaking in." With the word "cheerfulness," Edwards had de- molished the scheme of life of most of our professed philosophers, who have no place in their systems for the attribute that goes furthest toward making life worth while to the average man. Cheerfulness is a much rarer quality than is gen- erally supposed, especially among the rich. It was not common even before we learned that, in spite of Browning, though God may be in his heaven, never- theless, all is wrong with the world. If "most men lead lives of quiet desperation," as Thoreau says they do, it is, I suspect, because they will not allow cheerfulness to break in upon them when it will. A good disposition is worth a fortune. . Give cheerfulness a chance and let the professed philosopher go hang. But it is high time for me to turn my attention, and yours, if I may, to the particular philosopher through whom I wish to stick my pen, and whom, thus im- paled, I wish to present for your edification — say, rather, amusement. His name was William Godwin; he was the husband of Mary WoUstonecraft and the father-in-law of Shelley. Godwin was born in Cambridgeshire in 1756, and came of preaching stock. It is related that, when only a lad, he used to steal away, not to go in swim- ming or to rob an orchard, but to a meeting-house to preach; this at the age of ten. The boy was father to A RIDICULOUS PHILOSOPHER 229 the man: to the end of his life he never did anything else. He first preached orthodoxy, later heterodoxy, but he was always a preacher. I do not like the tribe. I am using the word as indicating one who elects to teach by word rather than by example. When a boy he had an attack of smallpox. Relig- ious scruples prevented him from submitting to vac- cination, for he said he had no wish to run counter to the will of God. In this frame of mind he did not long remain. He seems to have been a hard student — what we would call a grind. He read enormously, and by twenty he considered that he was fully equipped for his life's work. He was as ready to preach as an Irishman is to fight, for the love of it; but he was quarrelsome as well as pious, and, falling out with his congregation, he dropped the title of Reverend and betook himself to literature and London. At this time the French Revolution was raging, and the mental churning which it occasioned had its effect upon sounder minds than his. Godwin soon became intimate with Tom Paine and others of like opinions. Wherever political heresy and schism was talked, there Godwin was to be found. He stood for everything which was "advanced" in thought and conduct; he joined the school which was to write God with a small g. All the radical visionaries in London were attracted to him, and he to them. He thought and dreamed and talked, and finally grew to feel the need of a larger audience. The result was "An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice," a book which created a tremendous 230 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING sensation in its day. It seemed the one thing needed to bring political dissent and dissatisfaction to a head. Much was wrong at the time, much is still wrong, and doubtless reformers of Godwin's type do a certain amount of good. They call attention to abuses, and eventually the world sets about to remedy them. A "movement" is in the air; it centres in some man who voices and directs it. For the moment the man and the movement seem to be one. Ultimately the movement becomes diffused, its character changes; frequently the man originally identified with it is forgotten — so it was with Godwin. "Political Justice" was published in 1793. In it Godwin fell foul of everything. He assailed aU forms of government. The common idea that blood is thicker than water, is wrong: all men are brothers; one should do for a stranger as for a brother. The distribution of property is absurd. A man's needs are to be taken as the standard of what he should receive. He that needs most is to be given most — by whom, Godwin did not say. Marriage is a law and the worst of all laws: it is an affair of property, and like property must be abol- ished. The intercourse of the sexes is to be like any other species of friendship. If two men happen to feel a preference for the same woman, let them both enjoy her conversation and be wise enough to consider sexual intercourse "a very trivial object indeed." I have a copy of "Political Justice," before me, with Tom Paine's signature on the title-page. "What A RIDICULOUS PHILOSOPHER 231 a whirlwind all this once created, especially with the young! Its author became one of the most-talked-of men of his time, and Godwin's estimate of himself could not have been higher than that his disciples set upon him. Compared with him, "Paine was nowhere and Burke a flashy sophist." He gloried in the reputa- tion his book gave him, and he profited by it to the extent of a thousand pounds; to him it was a fortune. Pitt, who was then Prime Minister, when his atten- tion was called to the book, wisely remarked, "It is not worth while to prosecute the author of a three- guinea book, because at such a price very little harm can be done to those who have not three shillings to spare." The following year Godwin published his one other book that has escaped the rubbish heap of time — "The Adventures of Caleb Williams," a novel. It is the best of what might be called "The Nightmare Series," which would begin with "The Castle of Otranto," include his own daughter's "Franken- stein," and end, for the moment, with Bram Stoker's "Dracula." "Caleb Williams" has genuine merit; that it is horrible and unnatural may be at once ad- mitted, but there is a vitality about it which holds your interest to the last; unrelieved by any flash of sentiment or humor, it is still as entirely readable as it was once immensely popular. Colman, the younger, dramatized it under the name of "The Iron Chest," and several generations of playgoers have shuddered at the character of Falkland, the murderer, who, and 232 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING not Caleb Williams, is the chief character. His other novels are soup made out of the same stock, as a chef would say, with a dash of the supernatural added. Godwin had now written all that he was ever to write on which the dust of years has not settled, to be disturbed only by some curious student of a forgotten literature; yet he supposed that he was writing for posterity ! Meanwhile he, who had been living with his head in the clouds, became aware of the existence of "females." It was an important, if belated, discov- ery. He was always an inveterate letter-writer, and his curious letters to a number of women have been preserved. He seems to have had more than a pass- ing fancy for Amelia Alderson, afterward Mrs. Opie, the wife of the artist. He was intimate with Mrs. Robinson, the "Perdita" of the period, in which part she attracted the attention of the Prince of Wales., Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Reveley were also friends, with whom he had frequent misunderstandings. His views on the subject of marriage being well known, perhaps these ladies, merely to test the philosopher, sought to overcome his objection to "that worst of institutions." If so, their efforts were unsuccessful. Godwin, however, seems to have exerted a peculiar fascination over the fair sex, and he finally met one with whom, as he says, "friendship melted into love." Godwin, saying he would ne'er consent, consented. Mary WoUstonecraft, the author of the "Rights of Woman," now calling herself Mrs. Imlay, triumphed. A RIDICULOUS PHILOSOPHER 233 Her period of romance, followed fast by tragedy, was for a brief time renewed with Godwin. She had had one experience, the result of which was a fatherless infant daughter, Fanny; and some time after she took up with Godwin, she urged upon him the desirability of "marriage lines." Godwin demurred for a time; but when Mary con- fided to him that she was about to become a mother, a private wedding in St. Pancras Church took place. Separate residence was attempted, in order to conform to Godwin's theory that too close familiarity might result in mutual weariness; but Godwin was not destined to become bored by his wife. She had intel- ligence and beauty; indeed, it seems likely that he loved her as devotedly as it was possible for one of his frog-like nature to do. Shortly after the marriage a daughter was born, and christened Mary; and a few ,.days later the remains of Mary WoUstonecraft God- win were interred in the old graveyard of St. Pancras, close by the church which she had recently left as a bride. No sketch of Godwin's life would be complete without the well-known story of the expiring wife's exclamation: "I am in heaven"; to which Godwin replied, "No, my dear, you only mean that your physical sensations are somewhat easier." Thus, by that "divinity that shapes our ends rough," Godwin, who did not approve of marriage and who had no place in his philosophy for the do- mestic virtues, became within a few months a hus- 234 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING band, a widower, a stepfather, and a father. Probably no man was less well equipped than he for his imme- diate responsibilities. He had been living in one house and his wife in another, to save his face, as it were, and also to avoid interruptions; but this scheme of life was no longer possible. A household must be estab- lished; some sort of a family nurse became an imme- diate necessity. One was secured, who tried to marry Godwin out of hand. To escape her attentions he fled to Bath. But his objections to marriage as an institution were waning, and when he met Harriet Lee, the daughter of an actor, and herself a writer of some small distinc- tion, they were laid aside altogether. His courtship of Miss Lee took the form of interminable letters. He writes her: "It is not what you are but what you might be that charms me"; and he chides her for not being prepared faithfully to discharge the duties of a wife and mother. Few women have been in this humor won; Miss Lee was not among them. Godwin finally returned to London. He was now a man approaching middle age, cold, methodical, dogmatic, and quick to take offense. He began to live on borrowed money. The story of his life at this time is largely a story of his squabbles. A more industrious man at picking a quarrel one must go far to find; and that the record might remain, he wrote letters — not short, angry letters, but long, serious, disputatious epistles, such as no one likes to receive, and which seem to demand and usually get an immediate answer. A RIDICULOUS PHILOSOPHER 235 Ritson writes him: "I wish you would make it con- venient to return to me the thirty pounds I loaned you. My circumstances are by no means what they were at the time I advanced it, nor did I, in fact, imagine you would have retained it so long." And again: "Though you have not the ability to repay the money I loaned you, you might have integrity enough to return the books you borrowed. I do not wish to bring against you a railing accusation, but am com- pelled, nevertheless, to feel that you have not acted the part of an honest man." Godwin seems to have known his weakness, for he writes of himself: "I am feeble of tact and liable to the grossest mistakes respecting theory, taste, and character." And again: "No domestic connection is fit for me but that of a person who should habitually study my gratification and happiness." This sounds ominous from one who was constantly looking for a "female companion"; and it was to prove so. It is with a feeling of relief that we turn, for a mo- ment, from the sordid life of Godwin the philosopher to Godwin the dramatist. He was sadly in need of funds, and, following the usual custom of an author in distress, had written a tragedy, for which Charles Lamb had provided the epilogue. John Philip Kemble, seduced by Godwin's flattery and insistence, had finally been prevailed upon to put it on the stage. Kemble had made up his mind that all the good tragedies that could be written had been 236 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING written, and had not his objections been overruled, the tragedy "Antonio," would never have been pro- duced, and one of Lamb's most delightful essays, in consequence, never written. With the usual preliminaries, and after much cor- respondence and discussion, the night of the play came. It was produced at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane — what a ring it has ! Lamb was there in a box next to the author, who was cheerful and confident. It is a pity to mutilate Lamb's account of it, but it is too long to quote except in fragments. The first act swept by solemn and silent . . . applause would have been impertinent, the interest would warm in the next act. . . . The second act rose a little in interest, the audience became complacently attentive. . . . The third act brought the scene which was to warm the piece progressively to the final flaming forth of the catastrophe, but the interest stood stone still. . . . It was Christmas time and the atmosphere furnished some pretext for asthmatic affections. Some one began to cough, his neighbors sympathized with him, till it became an epidemic; but when from being artificial in the pit the cough got naturalized on the stage, and Antonio himself seemed more intent upon relieving his own lungs than the distress of the author, then Godwin "first knew fear," and intimated that, had he been aware that Mr. Kemble la- bored under a cold, the performance might possibly have been postponed. In vain did the plot thicken. The procession of verbiage stalked on, the audience paid no attention whatever to it, the actors became smaller and smaller, the stage re- ceded, the audience was going to sleep, when suddenly Antonio whips out a dagger and stabs his sister to the p r. R y d R M K D. t' iieatre llc>yai, Drurv Laiv% This (ircfeiu SATURDAY, Ucccinkr i^'K iSoo, Their M-JcOics Strvaiui will avit a Nc*i- Traf^c^i)' called ANTONIO; THE SOLDIEirS RETURN The Cha rafters by- Mr.' W R O U C> M T O N, Mr. B A R R Y M O R E, Mr. K E M B L E. Mr. C K E M B L K. Mr P O \V E L L, Mr. H O L L A N D. Mr. MADDOCRS, l^.lr. FISflER, Mr. EVAN-S r.I.. WEBB, Mrs S I D D O N S. The Picloguc to be Spoken bv .Mr. C. KEMBLE,. And the Epilogue by MIfs H«iARD. Afier ihc Tragx'w'y viJI !w a>]cJ jl Vucc wiiiJ The VIRGIN UNiMASK'D. CIco'lwi!:, Mr. P A C K E R, Miilcr. Mr. ,s V. C T T, Cojix:.-. Mr. B A .\ N I ^S T E R. fun. . Q.'.j.\^i; y. . V I \ V >-i, Thotm-, Mr. F I S H U R. Mifs l.vcr by toe Vor.NG i.WX \\ko pcifi-riiirc the ' .IK of \'i >; i iDji'tn in ihe T ip t" ^cmbDrmtxh, » (Bting htr Scconi Appfarancc ort fhu Si«£«.) The DocmoSc opuQcti iit a \^a3rh.r iii.r. f IVK.. r™t^»ol>ei,ifl .ipa Quuner pafl SIS.- fU.-.A farlh~ !•»<« to lis ntcn 0< Mr. l-O^UKUllk, .n ihr IIt. Oal -r, ui l.,tt!c.«ijIMV.Str«. Boxc-; 6.. Sl-coiiJ l^m.-' iS. I'll l^. U StKniut I'ru-i- ;s. ti i. tl' 2.- > .^'...l Trice is. l-l.ftt Ullkry It WouJ Prico oJ. Nj MONKV TO ill RhU-'R^t.D. PrH.tcJ hy C. Lowtidct, nwt t}w Staj;c.Door.. - f'r-.axt titx f^ AV^jatj. Viic Tr.'jnly at I'lZAK-ROconuiiiii! ro licicvtivcl v nh iin.'bitinp jppliuft, a-"' "^ ftj] lis adkil. for the Sth nine ihti Seal'on. on MotuLiy lK:u. Tiias St. Paul's, it consisted, like the old one, of three arches — a large flattened centre TEMPLE BAR IN DK. JOHNSON'S TIME arch, with small semicircular arches on either side. Above the centre arch was a large window, which gave light and air to a spacious chamber within; while on either side of the window were niches, in which were placed statues of King James and his Queen, Anne TEMPLE BAR THEN AND NOW 281 of Denmark, on tlie City side and of Charles I and Charles II on the Westminster side. The curious may wish to know that the mason was Joshua Marshall, whose father had been master- mason to Charles I; that the sculptor of the statues was John Bushnell, who died insane; and that the cost of the whole, including the statues at four hun- dred and eighty pounds, was but thirteen hundred and ninety-seven pounds, ten shillings. The fog and soot and smoke of London soon give the newest building an appearance of age, and mer- cifully bring it into harmony with its surroundings. Almost before the new gate was completed, it had that appearance; and before it had a chance to grow really old, there arose a demand for its removal alto- gether. Petitions praying for its destruction were cir- culated and signed. Verse, if not poetry, urging its retention was written and printed. K that Gate is pulled down, 'twixt the Court and the City, You'll blend in one mass, prudent, worthless and witty. If you league cit and lordling, as brother and brother. You'll break order's chain and they'll war with each other. Like the Great Wall of China, it keeps out the Tartars From making irruptions, where industry barters. Like Samson's Wild Foxes, they'll fire your houses. And madden your spinsters, and cousin your spouses. They'll destroy in one sweep, both the Mart and the Forum, Which your fathers held dear, and their fathers before 'em. But, attacked by strong city men and defended only by sentiment. Temple Bar still continued to impede traffic and shut out light and air, while the 282 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING generations who fought for its removal passed to their rest. It became the subject of jokes and conundrums. Why is Temple Bar like a lady's veil? it was asked; the answer being that both must be raised (razed) for busses. The distinction between a buss and a kiss, suggested by Herrick, of whom the eighteenth-cen- tury City man never heard, would have been lost; but we know that — Kissing and bussing differ both in this. We buss our wantons and our wives we kiss. No account of Temple Bar would be complete with- out reference to the iron spikes above the centre of the pediment, on which were placed occasionally the heads of persons executed for high treason. This ghastly custom continued down to the middle of the eighteenth century, and gave rise to many stories, most of them legendary, but which go to prove, were proof necessary, that squeamishness was not a com- mon fault in the days of the Georges. To refer, however briefly, to the taverns which clustered east and west of Temple Bar and to the authors who frequented them, would be to stop the progress of this paper — and begin another. Dr. Johnson only voiced public opinion when he said that a tavern chair is a throne of human felicity. For more than three centuries within the shadow of Temple Bar there was an uninterrupted flow of wine and wit and wisdom, with, doubtless, some wickedness. From Ben Jonson, whose favorite resort was The Devil, adjoining the Bar on the south side, down to Tenny- TEMPLE BAR THEN AND NOW 283 son, who frequented The Cock, on the north, came the same cry, for good talk and good wine. O plump head-waiter at the Cock, To which I most resort. How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock — Go fetch a pint of port. This does not sound like the author of "Locksley Hall," but it is; and while within the taverns, "the chief glory of England, its authors," were writing and talking themselves into immortality, just outside there ebbed and flowed beneath the arches of Temple Bar, east in the morning and west at night, the human stream which is one of the wonders of the world. 3- 9- On hursday eTening last, some gentlemen, who supijed and spent some agreeable houis at The Devil Tavern near Temple Barr, upon calling for the bill of expenses had the follonmg given them bythe landlord, viz.: For geese, the finest ever seen £ s. d By Duke or Duchess, King or Queen, o. 6. 6. For nice green peas, as plump and pretty, Better ne'er ate in London City, < For charming gravy, made to please. With butter, bread & Cheshire cheese, o. 3. For honest porter, brown and stout. That cheers the heart, & cures the gout, o. 1. For unadulterated wine; Genuine I Noble 1 Pure I Divine I o. 6. For my Nan's punch (and Nan knows how To make good punch, you '11 all allow) o. 7. For juniper, most clear and fine. That looks and almost tastes, like wine, o. i. For choice tobacco, undefiled Harmless and pleasant, soft and mild o. o. £1. CUFFING FROM A NEWSPAPEK PUBLISHED IN 1767 Meanwhile the importance of Temple Bar as a city gate was lessening; "a weak spot in our defenses," a wit calls it, and points out that the enemy can dash 284 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING around it through the barber's shop, one door of which opens into the City, and the other into the " suburbs " ; but down to the last it continued to play a part in City functions. In 1851 it is lit with twenty thousand lamps as the Queen goes to a state ball in Guildhall. A few months later, it is draped in black as the re- mains of the Iron Duke pause for a moment under its arches, on the way to their final resting-place in St. Paul's Cathedral. In a few years we see it draped with the colors of England and Prussia, when the Princess Royal, as the bride of Frederick William, gets her "Farewell" and "God bless you" from the City, on her departure for Berlin. Five years pass and the young Prince of Wales and his beautiful bride, Alexandra, are received with wild applause by the mob as their carriage halts at Temple Bar; and once again when, in February, 1872, Queen Victoria, the Prince and Princess of Wales, and their Court go to St. Paul's to return thanks for the Prince's happy recovery from a dangerous illness. With this event the history of Temple Bar in its old location practically ceases. It continued a few years longer a "bone in the throat of Fleet Street"; but at last its condition became positively dangerous, its gates were removed because of their weight, and its arches propped up with timbers. Finally, in 1877, its removal was decided upon, by the Corporation of London, and Temple Bar, from time immemorial one of London's most notable landfnarks, disappears and the Griffin on an "island" rises in its stead. TEMPLE BAR THEN AND NOW 285 "The ancient site of Temple Bar has been disfig- gured by Boehm with statues of the Queen aiid the Prince of Wales so stupidly modeled that they look like statues out of Noah's Ark. It is bad enough that we should have German princes foisted upon us, but German statues are worse." In this manner George MoOre refers to the Me- morial commonly called the GriflSn, which, shortly after the destruction of the old gate, was erected on the exact spot where Temple Bar formerly stood. It is not a handsome object; indeed, barring the Albert Memorial, it may be said to represent Vic- torian taste at its worst. It is a high, rectangular pedestal, running lengthwise with the street, placed on a small island which serves as a refuge for pedes- trians crossing the busy thoroughfare. On either side are niches in which are placed the lifesize marble fig- ures described by Moore.- But this is not all: there are bronze tablets let into the masonry, showing in basso- rilievo incidents in the history of old Temple Bar, with portraits, medallions, and other things. This base pedestal, if so it may be called, is surmounted by a smaller pedestal on which is placed a heraldic dragon or griffin, — a large monster in bronze, — which is supposed to guard the gold of the City. We do not look for beauty in Fleet Street, and we know that only in the Victorian sense is this monu- ment a work of art; but it has the same interest for us as a picture by Frith — it is a human document. Memories of the past more real than the actual pres- 286 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING ent crowd upon us, and we turn under an archway into the Temple Gardens, glad to forget the artistic sins of Boehm and his compeers. Ask the average Londoner what has become of old Temple Bar, and he will look at you in blank amaze- ment, and then, with an effort of memory, say, "They've put it up somewhere in the north." And so it is. On its removal the stones were carefully numbered, with a view to reerection, and there was some discus- sion as to where the old gate should be located. It is agreed now that it should have been placed in the Temple Gardens; but for almost ten years the stones, about one thousand in number, were stored on a piece of waste ground in the Farrington Road. Finally, they were purchased by Sir Henry Meux, the rich brewer, whose brewery, if out of sight, still indicates its presence by the strong odor of malt, at the corner of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. Sir Henry Meux was the owner of a magnificent country seat, Theobald's Park, near Waltham Cross, about twelve miles north of London; and he determined to make Temple Bar the principal entrance gate to this historic estate. So to Theobald's Park, anciently Tibbals, I bent my steps one morning. Being in a reminiscent mood, I had intended to follow in the footsteps of Izaak Walton, from the site of his shop in Fleet Street just east of Temple Bar, and having, in the words of TEMPLE BAR THEN AND NOW 287 the gentle angler, "stretched my legs up Tottenham Hill," to take the high road into Hertfordshire; but the English spring having opened with more than its customary severity, I decided to go by rail. It was raining gently but firmly when my train reached its destination, Waltham Cross, and I was deprived of the pleasure I had promised myself of reaching Temple Bar on foot. An antique fly, drawn by a superan- nuated horse, was secured at the railway station, and after a short drive I was set down before old Temple Bar, the gates of which were closed as securely against me as ever they had been closed against an unruly mob in its old location. Driving along a flat and monotonous country road, one comes on the old gate almost suddenly, and ex- periences a feeling, not of disappointment but of sur- prise. The gate does not span the road, but is set back a little in a hedge on one side of it, and seems large for its setting. One is prepared for a dark, grimy portal, whereas the soot and smoke of London have been erased from it, and, instead, one sees an antique, creamy-white structure tinted and toned with the green of the great trees which overhang it. Prowling about in the drenching rain, I looked in vain for some sign of life. I shouted to King James, who looked down on me from his niche; and receiving no reply, addressed his consort, inquiring how I was to secure admittance. A porter's lodge on one side, almost hidden in the trees, supplied an answer to my question, and on my 288 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING giving a lusty pull at the bell, the door was opened and a slatternly woman appeared and inquired my business. "To look over Temple Bar," I replied. "Hutterly himpossible," she said; and I saw at once that tact and a coin were required. I used both. " Go up the drive to the great 'ouse and hask for the clerk [pronounced dark] of the works, Mr. 'Arrison; 'e may let ye hover." I did as I was told and had little difficulty with Mr. Harrison. The house itself was imdergoing extensive repairs and alterations. It has recently passed, under the will of Lady Meux, to its present owner, together with a fortune of five hundred thousand pounds in money. Many years ago Henry Meux married the beauti- ful and charming Valerie Langton, an actress, — a Gaiety girl, in fact, — but they had had no children, and when he died in 1900, the title became extinct. Thereafter Lady Meux, enormously wealthy, without relatives, led a retired life, chiefly interested in breed- ing horses. A chance courtesy paid her by the wife of Sir Hedworth Lambton, who had recently married, together with the fact that he had established a rep- utation for ability and courage, decided her in her thought to make him her heir. Sir Hedworth, a younger son of the second Earl of Durham, had early adopted the sea as his profession. He had distinguished himself in the bombardment of Alexandria, and had done something wonderful at Ladysmith. He was a hero, no longer a young man. TEMPLE BAR THEN AND NOW 289 without means — who better fitted to succeed to her wealth and name? In 1911 Lady Meux died, and this lovely country seat, originally a hunting-lodge of King James, subsequently the favorite residence of Charles I, and with a long list of royal or noble owners, became the property of the gallant sailor. All that he had to do was to forget that the name of Meux sug- gested a brewery and exchange his own for it, and the great property was his. It reads like a chapter out of a romance. Thus it was that the house was being thor- oughly overhauled for its new owner at the time of my visit. But I am wandering from Temple Bar. Armed with a letter from Mr. Harrison, I returned to the gate. First, I ascertained that the span of the centre arch, the arch through which for two centuries the traflSc of London had passed, was but twenty-one feet "in the clear," as an architect would say; next, that the span of the small arches on either side was only four feet six inches. No wonder that there was always congestion at Temple Bar. I was anxious also to see the room above, the room in which formerly Messrs. Child, when it had ad- joined their banking-house, had stored their old ledgers and cash-books. Keys were sought and found, and I was admitted. The room was bare except for a large table in the centre, on which were quill pens and an inkstand in which the iak had dried up years be- fore. One other thing there was, a visitor's book, which, like a new diary, had been started oflf bravely 290 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING years before, but in which no signature had recently been written. I glanced over it and noticed a few well-known names — English names, not American, such as one usually finds, for I was off the beaten track of the tourist. The roof was leaking here and there, and little pools of water were forming on the floor. It was as cold as a tomb. I wished that a tavern, the Cock, the Devil, or any other, had been just outside, as in the old days when Temple Bar stood in Fleet Street. The slatternly woman clanked her keys; she too was cold. I had seen all there was to see. The beauty of Temple Bar is in its exterior, and, most of aU, in its wealth of literary and historic associations. I could muse elsewhere with less danger of pneumonia, so I said farewell to the kings in their niches, who in this suburban retreat seemed like monarchs retired from business, and returned to my cab. The driver was asleep in the rain. I think the horse was, too. I roused the man and he roused the beast, and we drove almost rapidly back to the station; no, not to the station, but to a public house close by it, where hot water and accompaniments were to be had. "When is the next train up to London?" I asked an old man at the station. "In ten minutes, but you'll find it powerful slow." I was not deceived; it took me over an hour to reach London. As if to enable me to bring this story to a fitting close, I read in the papers only a few days ago: "Vice- TEMPLE BAR THEN AND NOW 291 Admiral Sir John Jellicoe was to-day promoted to the rank of Admiral, and Sir Hedworth Meux, who until now has been commander-in-chief at Portsmouth, was appointed Admiral of the Home Fleet." ^ Good luck be with him! Accepting the burdens which properly go with rank and wealth, he is at this moment cruising somewhere in the cold North Sea, in command of perhaps the greatest fleet ever as- sembled. Upon the owner of Temple Bar, at this moment, devolves the duty of keeping watch and ward over England. ^ This was written in April, 1915. Sir Hedworth Meux is not now in active service. XI A MACAEONI PARSON It will hardly be questioned that the influence of the priesthood is waning. Why this is so, it is not within the province of a mere book-collector to discuss; but the fact will, I think, be admitted. In the past, how- ever, every country and almost every generation has produced a type of priest which seems to have been the special product of its time. The soothsayer of old Rome, concealed, perhaps, in a hollow wall, whispered his warning through the marble lips of a conveniently placed statue, in return for a suitable present indi- rectly offeted; while to-day Billy Sunday, leaping and yelling like an Apache Indian, shrieks his admo- nitions at us, and takes up a collection in a clothes- basket. It is all very sad and, as Oscar Wilde would have said, very tedious. Priests, prophets, parsons, or preachers ! They are all human, like the rest of us. Too many of them are ^ merely insurance agents soliciting us to take out policies of insurance against fire everlasting, for a fee commensurate, not with the risk, but with our means. It is a well-established trade, in which the representatives of the old-line companies, who have had the cream of the business, look with disapproval upon new methods, as well they may, their own having A MACARONI PARSON 293 worked so well for centuries. The premiums collected have been enormous, and no evidence has ever been produced that the insurer took any risk whatever. And the profession has been, not only immensely lucrative, but highly honorable. In times past priests have ranked with kings: sometimes wearing robes of silk studded with jewels; on fortune's cap the top- most button, exhibit Wolsey; sometimes appearing in sackcloth relieved by ashes; every man in his humor. But it is not my purpose to inveigh against any creed or sect; only I confess my bewilderment at the range of human interest in questions of doctrine, while simple Christianity stands neglected. The subject of this paper, however, is not creeds in general or in particular, but an eighteenth-century clergyman of the Church of England. It will not, I think, be doubted by those who have given the sub- ject any attention that religious affairs in England in the eighteenth century were at a very low ebb in- deed. Carlyle, as was his habit, called that century some hard names; but some of us are glad occasionally to steal away from our cares and forget our present "efficiency" in that century of leisure. Perhaps not for always, but certainly for a time, it is a relief to . . . live in that past Georgian day When men were less inclined to say That "Time is Gold," and overlay With toil, their pleasure. And to quote Austin Dobson again, with a slight variation: — 294 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING Seventeen hundred and" twenty-nine: — That is the date of this tale of mine. First great George was buried and gone; George the Second was plodding on. Whitfield preached to the colliers grim; Bishops in lawn sleeves preached at him; Walpole talked of "a man and his price"; Nobody's virtue was over-nice: — certainly not that of the clergyman of whom I am about to speak. And now, without further delay, I introduce Wil- liam Dodd. Doctor Dodd, he came to be called; sub- sequently, the " imf ortunate Doctor Dodd," which he certainly considered himself to be, and with good reason, as he was finally hanged. William Dodd was born in Lincolnshire, in 1729, and was himself the son of a clergyman. He early became a good student, and entering Clare Hall, Cam- bridge, at sixteen, attracted some attention by his close application to his studies. But books alone did not occupy his time: he attained some reputation as a dancer and was noted for being very fond of dress. He must have had real ability, however, for he was graduated with honors, and his name appears on the list of wranglers. Immediately after receiving his Arts degree, he set out to make a career for himself in London. Young Dodd was quick and industrious: he had good manners and address, made friends quickly, and A MACARONI PARSON 295 was possessed of what, in those days, was called "a lively imagination," which seems to have meant a fondness for dissipation; with friends to help him, he soon knew his way about the metropolis. Its many pitfalls he discovered by falling into them, and the pitfalls for a gay young blade in London in the middle of the eighteenth century were many and sundry. But whatever his other failings, of idleness Dodd could not be accused. He did not forget that he had come to London to make a career for himseK. He had already published verse; he now began a comedy, and the death of the Prince of Wales afforded him a subject for an elegy. From this time on he was pre- pared to write an ode or an elegy at the drop of a hat. The question, should he become author or minister, perplexed him for some time. For success in either direction perseverance and a patron were necessary. Perseverance he had, but a patron was lacking. While pondering- these matters, Dodd seemed to have nipped his career in the bud by a most improvi- dent marriage. His wife was a Mary Perkins, which means little to us. She may have been a servant, but more likely she was the discarded mistress of a noble- man who was anxious to see her provided with a hus- band. In any event, she was a handsome woman, and his marriage was not his greatest misfortune. Shortly after the wedding, we hear of them living in a small establishment in Wardour Street, not then, as now, given over to second-hand furniture shops, but rather a good quarter frequented by literary men 296 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING and artists. Who supplied the money for this venture we do not know; it was probably borrowed from some- one, and we may suspect that Dodd already was headed the wrong way — or that, at least, his father thought so ; for we hear of his coming to London to persuade his son to give up his life there and return to Cambridge to continue his studies. Shortly after this time he published two small vol- umes of quotations which he called "Beauties of Shakespeare." He was the first to make the discovery that a book of quotations "digested xmder proper heads" would have a ready sale. Shakespeare in the dead centre of the eighteenth century was not the colossal figure that he is seen to be as we celebrate the tercentenary of his death. I suspect that my friend Felix Schelling, the great Elizabethan scholar, feels that anyone who would make a book of quota- tions from Shakespeare deserves Dodd's end, namely, hanging; indeed, I have heard him suggest as much; but we cannot all be Schellings. The book was well received and has been reprinted right down to our own time. In the introduction he refers to his at- tempt to present a collection of the finest passages of the poet, "who was ever," he says, "of all modern authors, my first and greatest favorite"; adding that "it would have been no hard task to have multiplied notes and parallel passages from Greek, Latin and English writers, and thus to have made no small dis- play of what is commonly called learning"; but that he had no desire to perplex the reader. There is much A MACARONI PARSON 297 good sense in the introduction, which we must also think of as coming from a young man Uttle more than a year out of college. As it was his first, so he thought it would be his last, serious venture into literature, for in his preface he says: "Better and more important things henceforth demand my attention, and I here, with no small pleasure, take leave of Shakespeare and the critics: as this work was begim and finish'd before I enter'd upon the sacred fimction in which I am now happily employ 'd." Dodd had already been ordained deacon and settled down as a curate in West Ham in Essex, where he did not spare himself in the dull round of parochial drudgery. So passed two years which, looking back on them from within the portals of Newgate Prison, he declared to have been the happiest of his life. But he soon tired of the country, his yearning for city life was not to be resisted, and securing a lectureship at St. Olave's, Hart Street, he returned to London and relapsed into literature. A loose novel, "The Sisters," is credited to hun. Whether he wrote it or not is a question, but he may well have done so, for some of its pages seem to have inspired his sermons. Under cover of being a warn- ing to the youth of both sexes, he deals with London life in a manner which would have put the author of "Peregrine Pickle" to shame; but as nobody's virtue was over-nice, nobody seemed to think it particularly strange that a clergyman should have written such a 298 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING book. In many respects he reminds us of his more gifted rival, Laurence Sterne. Dodd's great chance came in 1758, when a certain Mr. Hingley and some of his friends got together three thousand pounds and estabhshed an asylum for Magdalens, presumably penitent. The scheme was got under way after the usual difficulties; and as, in the City, the best way to arouse public interest is by a dinner, so in the West End a sermon may be made to serve the same purpose. Sterne had talked a hundred and sixty pounds out of the pockets of his hearers for the recently established Foundling Hospital; Dodd, when selected to preach the inaugural sermon at Mag- dalen House, got ten times as much. Who had the greater talent? Dodd was content that the question should be put. The charity became immensely popu- lar. "Her Majesty" subscribed three hundred pounds, and the cream of England's nobility, feeling a personal interest in such an institution, and perhaps a personal responsibility for the urgent need of it, made large con- tributions. The success of the venture was assured. ' Dodd was made Chaplain. At first this was an hon- orary position, but subsequently a small stipend was attached to it. The post was much to his liking, and it became as fashionable to go to hear Dodd and see the penitent magdalens on Sunday, as to go to Rane- lagh and Vauxhsill with, and to see, impenitent mag- dalens during the week. Services at Magdalen House were always crowded: royalty attended; everybody went. A MACARONI PARSON 299 Sensational and melodramatic, Dodd drew vivid pictures of the life from which the women and young girls had been rescued: the penitents on exhibition and the impenitents in the congregation, alike, were moved to tears. Frequently a woman swooned, as was the fashion in those days, and her stays had to be cut; or someone went into hysterics and had to be carried screaming from the room. Dodd must have felt that he had made no mistake in his calling. Horace Walpole says that he preached very eloquently in the French style; but it can hardly have been in the style of Bossuet, I should say. The general wanton- ness of his subject he covered by a veneer of decency; but we can guess what his sermons were like, without reading them, from our knowledge of the man and the texts he chose. "These things I command you, that ye love one another," packed the house; but his greatest effort was inspired by the text, "Whosoever looketh on a woman." It does not require much im- agination to see what he would make out of that! But for all his immense popularity Dodd was get- ting very little money. His small living in the coim- try and his hundred guineas or so from the Magdalen did not suffice for his needs. He ran into debt, but he had confidence in himself and his ambition was boimdless; he even thought of a bishopric. Why not.? It was no new way to pay old debts. Influence in high places was his; but first he must secure a doctor's de- gree. This was not difficult. Cambridge, if not ex- actly proud of him, could not deny him, and Dodd got 300 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING his degree. The King was appealed to, and he was appointed a Royal Chaplain. It was a stepping-stone to something better, and Dodd, always industrious, now worked harder than ever. He wrote and pub- lished incessantly: translations, sermons, addresses, poems, odes, and elegies on anybody and everything: more than fifty titles are credited to him in the Brit- ish Museum catalogue. And above all things, Dodd was in demand at a "city dinner." His blessings — he was always called upon to say grace — were carefully regulated accord- ing to the scale of the function. A brief "Bless, Lord, we pray thee" sufficed for a simple dinner; but when the table was weighted down, as it usually was, with solid silver, and the glasses suggested the variety and number of wines which were to follow one an- other in orderly procession until most of the company got drunk and were carried home and put to bed, then Dodd rose to the occasion, and addi-essed a sonorous appeal which began, "Bountiful Jehovah, who has caused to groan this table with the abundant evidences of thy goodness." The old-line clergy looked askance at aU these do- ings. Bishops, secure in their enjoyment of princely incomes, and priests of lesser degree with incomes scarcely less princely, regarded Dodd with suspicion. Why did he not get a good living somewhere, from someone; hire a poor wretch to mumble a few prayers to half-empty benches on a Sunday while he col- lected the tithes? Why this zeal? When a substantial A MACARONI PARSON 301 banker hears of an upstart guaranteeing ten per cent interest, he awaits the inevitable crash, certain that, the longer it is postponed, the greater the crash will be. In the same light the well-beneficed clergyman regarded Dodd. Dodd himself longed for tithes; but as they were delayed in coming, he, in the meantime, decided to turn his reputation for scholarship to account, and accordingly let it be known that he would board and suitably instruct a limited number of young men; in other words, he fell back upon the time-honored cus- tom of taking pupils. He secured a country house at Ealing and soon had among his charges one Philip Stanhope, a lad of eleven years, heir of the great Earl of Chesterfield, who was so interested in the worldly success of his illegitimate son, to whom his famous letters were addressed, that he apparently gave him- self little concern as to the character of instruction that his lawful son received, Dodd's pupils must have brought a substantial in- crease of his small income, which was also suddenly augmented in another way. About the time he began to take pupils, a lady to whom his wife had been a sort of companion died and left her, quite unex- pectedly, fifteen hundred pounds. Nor did her good fortune end there. As she was attending an auction one day, a cabinet was put up for sale, and Mrs. Dodd bid upon it, until, observing a lady who seemed anx- ious to obtain it, she stopped bidding, and it became the property of the lady, who in return gave her a lot- 302 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING tery ticket, which drew a prize of a thousand pounds for Mrs. Dodd. With these windfalls at his disposal, Dodd em- barked upon a speculation quite in keeping with his tastes and abilities. He secured a plot of ground not far from the royal palace, and built upon it a chapel of ease which he called Charlotte Chapel, in honor of the Queen. Four pews were set aside for the royal house- hold, and he soon had a large and fashionable con- gregation. His sermons were in the same florid vein which had brought him popularity, and from this venture he was soon in receipt of at least six himdred pounds a year. With his increased income his style of living became riotous. He dined at expensive taverns, set up a coach, and kept a mistress, and even tried to force himself into the great literary club which numbered among its members some of the most dis- tinguished men of the day; but this was not permitted. For years Dodd led, not a double, but a triple life. He went through the motions of teaching his pupils. He preached, in his own chapels and elsewhere, ser- mons on popular subjects, and at the same time man- aged to live the life of a fashionable man about town. No one respected him, but he had a large following and he contrived every day to get deeper into debt. It is a constant source of bewilderment to those of us who are obliged to pay our bills with decent regu- larity, how, in England, it seems to have been so easy to live on year after year, paying apparently nothing to anyone, and resenting the appearance of a bill- A MACARONI PARSON 303 collector as an impertinence. When Goldsmith died, he owed a sum which caused Dr. Johnson to exclaim, "Was ever poet so trusted before?" and Goldsmith's debts were trifling in comparison with Dodd's. But, at the moment when matters were becoming really serious, a fashionable living — St. George's — fell vacant, and Dodd felt that if he could but secure it his troubles would be over. The parish church of St. George's, Hanover Square, was one of the best known in London. It was in the centre of fashion, and then, as now, enjoyed almost a monopoly of smart weddings. Its rector had just been made a bishop. Dodd looked upon it with long- ing eyes. What a plum! It seemed beyond his reach, but nothing venture, nothing have. On investiga- tion Dodd discovered that the living was worth fifteen hundred pounds a year and that it was in the gift of the Lord Chancellor. The old adage, "Give thy. pres- ent to the clerk, not to the judge," must have come into his mind; for, not long after, the wife of the Chancellor received an anonymous letter offering three thousand pounds down and an annuity of five hundred a year if she would successfully use her in- fluence with her husband to secure the living for a clergyman of distinction who should be named later. The lady very properly handed the letter to her hus- band, who at once set inquiries on foot. The matter was soon traced to Dodd, who promptly put the blame on his wife, saying that he had not been aware of the officious zeal of his consort. 304 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING The scandal became public, and Dodd thought it best to go abroad. His name was removed from the list of the King's chaplains. No care was taken to dis- guise references to him in the public prints. Libel laws in England seem to have been circumvented by the use of asterisks for letters: thus, Laurence Sterne would be referred to as "the Rev. L. S*****," coupled with some damaging statement; but in Dodd's case precaution of this sort was thought unnecessary. He was bitterly attacked and mercilessly ridiculed. Even Goldsmith takes a fling at him in " Retaliation," which appeared about this time. It remained, however, for Foote, the comedian, to hold him up to public scorn in one of his Haymarket farces, in which the parson and his wife were introduced as Dr. and Mrs. Simony. The satire was very coarse; but stomachs were strong in those good old days, and the whole town roared at the humor of the thing, which was admitted to be a great success. On Dodd's return to London his fortunes were at- a very low ebb indeed. A contemporary account says that, although almost overwhelmed with debt, his extravagance continued undiminished until, at last, "he descended so low as to become the editor of a newspaper." My editorial friends will note well the depth of his infamy. After a time the scandal blew over, as scandal will when the public appetite has been appeased, and Dodd began to preach again: a sensational preacher will always have followers. Someone presented him A MACARONI PARSON 305 to a small living in BuckiBghamshire, from which he had a small addition to his income; but otherwise he was ahnost neglected. At last he was obliged to sell his interest in his chapel venture, which he "unloaded," as we should say to-day, on a fellow divine by misstating its value as a going concern, so that the piirchaser was ruined by his bargain. But he continued to preach with great pathos and effect, when suddenly the announce- ment was made that the great preacher, Dr. Dodd, the Macaroni Parson, had been arrested on a charge of forgery; that he was already in the Compter; that he had admitted his guilt, and that he would doubtless be hanged. The details of the affair were soon public property. It appears that, at last overwhelmed with debt, Dodd had forged the name of his former pupil, now the Earl of Chesterfield, to a bond for forty-two himdred pounds. The bond had been negotiated and the money paid when the fraud was discovered. A war- rant for his arrest was at once made out, and Dodd was taken before Justice Hawkins (Johnson's first biographer), who sat as a committing magistrate, and held him for formal trial at the Old Bailey. Mean- while all but four hundred pounds of the money had been returned; for a time it seemed as if this smaU sxmi could be raised and the affair dropped. This cer- tainly was Dodd's hope; but the law had been set in motion, and justice, rather than mercy, was allowed to take its course. The crime had been committed early 806 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING in February. At the trial a few weeks later, the Earl of Chesterfield, disregarding Dodd's plea, appeared against him, and he was sentenced to death; but some legal point had been raised in his favor, and it was several months before the question was finally de- cided adversely to him. Dodd was now in Newgate Prison. There he was indulged in every way, according to the good old cus- tom of the time. He was plentifully supplied with money, and could secure whatever money would buy. Friends were admitted to see him at aU hours, and he occupied what leisure he had with correspondence, and wrote a long poem, "Thoughts in Prison," in five parts. He also projected a play and several other literary ventures. Meanwhile a mighty effort was set on foot to secure a pardon. Dr. Johnson was appealed to, and while he entertained no doubts as to the wisdom of capital punishment for fraud, forgery, or theft, the thought of a minister of the Church of England being publicly haled through the streets of London to Tyburn and being there hanged seemed horrible to him, and he promised to do his best. He was as good as his word. With his ready pen he wrote a number of letters and petitions which were conveyed to Dodd, and which, subsequently copied by him, were presented to the King, the Lord Chancellor, to any one, in fact, who might have influence and be ready to use it. He even went so far as to write a letter which, when transcribed by Mrs. Dodd, was presented to the Queen. One 0» (A^ lvj_Vt x^ ^ FACSIMILE OF THE FIRST PAGE OF DE. JOHNSON'S PETITION TO THE KING ON BEHALF OF DR. DODD A MACARONI PARSON 307 petition, drawn by Johnson, was signed by twenty- three thousand people; but the King — under the influence of Lord Mansfield, it is said — declined to interest himself. And this brings me to a point where I must ex- plain my peculiar interest in this thoroughgoing scoundtel. I happen to own a volume of manuscript letters written by Dodd, from Newgate Prison, to a man named Edmund Allen; and as not every reader of Boswell can be expected to remember who Ed- mund Allen was, I may say that he was Dr. John- son's neighbor and landlord in Bolt Court, a printer by trade and an intimate friend of the Doctor. It was Allen who gave the dinner to Johnson and Bos- well which caused the old man to remark, "Sir, we could not have had a better dinner had there been a Synod of Cooks." The Dodd letters to Allen, how- ever, are only a part of the contents of the volume. It contains also a great number of Johnson's letters to Dodd, and the original drafts of the petitions which he drew up in his efforts to secure mitigation of Dodd's punishment. The whole collection came into my possession many years ago, and has afforded me a subject of investigation on many a winter's evening when I might otherwise have occupied myself with soli- taire, did I happen to know one card from another. Allen appears to have been an acquaintance of Dodd's, and, I judge from the letters before me, called on Johnson with a letter from a certain Lady Harring- ton, who for some reason which does not appear, was 308 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING greatly interested in Dodd's fate. Boswell records that Johnson was much agitated at the interview, walking up and down his chamber saying, "I will do what I can." Dodd was personally unknown to Johnson and had only once been in his presence; and while an elaborate correspondence was being carried on be- tween them, Johnson declined to go to see the pris- oner, and for some reason wished that his name should not be drawn into the aflfair; but he did not relax his efforts. Allen was the go-between in aU that passed between the two men. In the volume before me, in all of Dodd's letters to Allen, Johnson's name has been carefully blotted out, and Johnson's letters in- tended for Dodd are not addressed to him, but bear the inscription, "This may be communicated to Dr. Dodd." Dodd's letters to Johnson were delivered to him by Allen and were probably destroyed, Allen having first made the copies which are now in my possession. Most of Dodd's letters to Allen appear to have been preserved, and Johnson's letters to Dodd, together with the drafts of his petitions, were care- fully preserved by Allen, Dodd being supplied with unsigned copies. Allen in this way carried out John- son's instructions to "tell nobody." Dodd's letters seem for the most part to have been written at night. The correspondence began early in May, and his last letter was dated Jime 26, a few hours before he died. None of Dodd's letters seem to have been published, and Johnson's, although of supreme interest, do not appear to have been known A MACARONI PARSON 309 in their entirety either to Hawkins, Boswell, or Bos- well's greatest editor, Birkbeek Hill. The petitions, so far as they have been published, seem to have been printed from imperfect copies of the original drafts. Boswell relates that Johnson had told him he had written a petition from the City of London, but they mended it. In the original draft there are a few re- pairs, but they are in Dr. Johnson's own hand. The petition to the King evidently did not require mend- ing, as the published copies are almost identical with the original. In the petition which he wrote for Mrs. Dodd to copy and present to the Queen, Johnson, not know- ing all the facts, left blank spaces in the original draft for Mrs. Dodd to fill when making her copy; thus the original draft reads : — To THE Queen's Most Excellent Majesty Madam: — It is most humbly represented by Dodd, the Wife of Dr. William Dodd, now lying in prison under Sentence of death. That she has been the Wife of this unhappy Man for more than — years, and has lived with him in the greatest happiness of conjugal union, and the highest state of con- jugal confidence. That she has been therefore for — years a constant Witness of his imwearied endeavors for publick good and his laborious attendance on charitable institutions. Many are the Families whom his care has reheved from want; many are the hearts which he has freed from pain, and the Faces which he has cleared from sorrow. 310 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING That therefore she most humbly throws herself at the feet of the Queen, earnestly entreating that the petition of a distressed Wife asking mercy for a husband may be con- sidered as naturally exciting the compassion of her Ma- jesty, and that when her Wisdom has compared the of- fender's good actions with his crime, she will be graciously pleased to represent his case in such terms to our most gracious Sovereign, as may dispose him to mitigate the rigours of the law. The case of the unfortunate Dr. Dodd was by now the talk of the town. If agitation and discussion and letters and positions could have saved him, saved he would have been, for all London was in an uproar, and efforts of every kind on his behalf were set in motion. He can hardly have been blamed for feeling sure that they would never hang him. Johnson was not so certain, and warned him against over-confi- dence. Rather curiously, merchants, "city people," who, one might suppose, would be inclined to regard the crime of forgery with severity, were disposed to think that Dodd's sufferings in Newgate were sufficient punishment for any crime he had committed. After all, it was said, the money, most of it, had been re- turned; so they signed a monster petition; twenty- three thousand names were secured without diffi- culty. But the West End was rather indifferent, and Dr. Johnson finally came to the conclusion that, while no effort should be relaxed (in a letter to Mr. Allen he says, " Nothing can do harm, let everything be tried"), it was time for Dodd to prepare himself A MACARONI PARSON 311 for his fate. He thereupon wrote the following letter, which we may suppose Allen either transcribed or read to the unfortunate prisoner: — Sie: — You know that my attention to Dr. Dodd has incited me to enquire what is the real purpose of Government; the dreadful answer I have put into your hands. Nothing now remains but that he whose profession it has been to teach others to dye, learn how to dye him- self. It will be wise to deny admission from this time to all who do not come to assist his preparation, to addict him- self wholly to prayer and meditation, and consider himself as no longer connected with the world. He has now noth- ing to do for the short time that remains, but to reconcile himself to God. To this end it will be proper to abstain totally from all strong liquors, and from all other sensual indulgences, that his thoughts may be as clear and cahn as his condition can allow. If his Remissions of anguish, and intervals of Devotion leave him any time, he may perhaps spend it profitably in writing the history of his own depravation, and marking the gradual declination from innocence and quiet to that state in which the law has found him. Of his advice to the Clergy, or admonitions to Fathers of families, there is no need; he will leave behind him those who can write them. But the history of his own mind, if not written by himseK, cannot be written, and the instruction that might be de- rived from it must be lost. This therefore he must leave if he leaves anything; but whether he can find leisure, or obtain tranquillity sufficient for this, I cannot judge. Let him however shut his doors against all hope, all trifles and all sensuality. Let him endeavor to calm his thoughts by abstinence, and look out for a proper director in his peni- tence, and May God, who would that all men shall be 312 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING saved, help him with his Holy Spirit, and have mercy on him for Jesus Christ's Sake. I am. Sir, ^ Yom- most humble Servant, Sam Johnson. June 17, 1777. Then, in response to a piteous appeal, Johnson wrote a brief letter for Dodd to send to the King, begging him at least to save him from the horror and ignominy of a public execution; and this was accom- panied by a brief note. Sir: — I most seriously enjoin you not to let it be at all known that I have written this letter, and to return the copy to Mr. Allen in a cover to me. I hope I need not tell you that I wish it success, but I do not indulge hope. Sam Johnson. As the time for Dodd's execution drew near, he wrote a final letter to Johnson, which, on its deliv- ery, must have moved the old man to tears. It was written at midnight on the 25th of June, 1777. Accept, thou great and good heart, my earnest and fer- vent thanks and prayers for all thy benevolent and kind efforts in my behalf. Oh! Dr. Johnson! as I sought your knowledge at an early hour in life, would to heaven I had cultivated the love and acquaintance of so excellent a man! I pray God most sincerely to bless you with the highest transports — the inf elt satisfaction of humane and benevo- lent exertions! And admitted, as I trust I shall be, to the realms of bliss before you, I shall hail your arrival there with transports, and rejoice to acknowledge that you were my Comforter, my Advocate and my Friend! God be ever with you! f~2f" t^c/' ^J^yC '1.' .''.^t'-rrt'^^r- y<^'<-'' A' ^cr-ijdj^yjt ^t' '' •'i ? .:tt^, .'^ ^/CUi- /^'-^ fiff^t-^ ^-»^ fw-i^ ;-????^ .it!^^ri^j/«ry-^ MR. ALLEN'S COPY OF THE LAST LETTEK DR. DODD SENT DR. JOHNSON. DODD WAS HANGED ON JUNE 27, 1777 A MACARONI PARSON 81S The original letter in Dodd's handwriting was kept by Johnson, who subsequently showed it to Boswell, together with a copy of his reply which Boswell calls "solemn and soothing," giving it at length in the "Life." My copy is in Allen's hand, but there is a note to Allen in Dodd's hand which accompanied the original, reading: "Add, dear sir, to the many other favors conferred on your unfortunate friend that of delivering my dying thanks to the worthiest of men. W. D." Two other things Johnson did: he wrote a sermon, which Dodd delivered with telling effect to his fel- low convicts, and he prepared with scrupulous care what has been called Dr. Dodd's last solemn declara- tion. It was without doubt intended to be read by Dodd at the place of execution, but unforeseen cir- cumstances prevented. Various versions have been printed in part. The original in Johnson's hand is before me and reads : — To the words of dying Men regard has always been paid. I am brought hither to suffer death for an act of Fraud of which I confess myself guilty, with shame such as my former state of life naturally produces; and I hope with such sorrow as The Eternal Son, he to whom the Heart is known, will not disregard. I repent that I have violated the laws by which peace and confidence are es- tablished among men; I repent that I have attempted to injure my fellow creatures, and I repent that I have brought disgrace upon my order, and discredit upon Religion. For this the law has sentenced me to die. But my offences against God are without name or number, and can admit only of general confession and general repentance. Grant, 314 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING Almighty God, for the Sake of Jesus Christ, that my re- pentance however late, however imperfect, may not be in vain. The little good that now remains in my power, is to warn others against those temptations by which I have been seduced. I have always sinned against conviction; my principles have never been shaken; I have always con- sidered the Christian religion, as a revelation from God, and its Divine Author, as the Saviour of the world; but the law of God, though never disowned by me, has often been forgotten. I was led astray from religious strictness by the Vanity of Show and the delight of voluptuousness. Vanity and pleasure required expense disproportionate to my income. Expense brought distress upon me, and dis- tress impelled me to fraud. For this fraud, I am to die; and I die declaring that however I have oflFended in practice, deviated from my own precepts, I have taught others to the best of my knowledge the true way to eternal happiness. My life has been hypo- critical, but my ministry has been sincere. I always be- Ueved and I now leave the world declaring my conviction, that there is no other name under heaven by which we can be saved, but only the name of the Lord Jesus, and I entreat all that are here, to join with me, in my last petition that for the Sake of Christ Jesus my sins may be forgiven. Anything more gruesome and demoralizing than an eighteenth-century hanging it would be impos- sible to imagine. We know from contemporary ac- counts of Dodd's execution that it differed only in detaU from other hangings, which were at the time a common occurrence. His last night on earth was made hideous by the ringing of bells. Under the window of his cell a small bell was rung at frequent A MACARONI PARSON 315 ...tervals by the watch, and he was reminded that he was soon to die, and that the time for repentance was short. At daybreak the great bell of St. Sepul- chre's Church just over the way began to toll, as was customary whenever prisoners in Newgate were being rounded up for execution. "Hanging Days" were usually holidays. Crowds collected in the streets, and as the day wore on, they became mobs of drunken men, infuriated or de- lighted at the proceedings, according to their interest in the prisoners. At nine o'clock the Felon's Gate was swung open and the prisoners were brought out. On this occasion, there were only two; frequently there were more — once indeed as many as fifteen persons were hanged on the same day. This was counted a great event. Dodd was spared the ignominy of the open cart in which the ordinary criminal was taken to the gal- lows, and a mourning coach drawn by four horses was provided for him by some of his friends. This was followed by a hearse with an open coffin. The streets were thronged. After the usual delays the procession started, but stopped again at St. Sepul- chre's, that he might receive a nosegay which was presented him, someone having bequeathed a fund to the church so that this melancholy custom could be carried out. Farther on, at Holborn Bar, it was usual for the cortege to stop, that the condemned man might be regaled with a mug of ale. Ordinarily the route from Newgate to Tyburn was 316 AMENITIES OP BOOK-COLLECTING very direct, through and along the Tyburn Road, now Oxford Street; but on this occasion it had been announced that the procession would follow a round- about course through Pall Mall. Thus the pressure of the crowd would be lessened and everyone would have an opportunity of catching a glimpse of the un- fortunate man; and everyone did. The streets were thronged, stands were erected and places sold, win- dows along the line of march were let at fabulous prices. In Hyde Park soldiers — two thousand of them — were under arms to prevent a rescue. The authorities were somewhat alarmed at the interest shown, and it was thought best to be on the safe side; the law was not to be denied. Owing to the crowds, the confusion, and the out- of-the-way course selected, it was almost noon when the procession reached Tyburn. We do not often think, as we whirl in our taxis along Oxford Street in the vicinity of Marble Arch, that this present centre of wealth and fashion was once Tyburn. There is nothing now to suggest that it was, a century or two ago, an unlovely and little-frequented outskirt of the great city, given over to "gallows parties." At Tyburn the crowd was very dense and impa- tient: it had been waiting for hours and rain had been falling intermittently. As the coach came in sight, the crowd pressed nearer; Dodd could be seen through the window. The poor man was trying to pray. More dead than alive, he was led to the cart, on which he was to stand while a rope was placed A MACARONI PARSON 317 about his neck. There was a heavy downpour of rain, so there was no time for the farewell address which Dr. Johnson had so carefully prepared. A sudden gust of wind blew off the poor man's hat, taking his wig with it: it was retrieved, and someone clapped it on his head backwards. The crowd was delighted; this was a hanging worth waiting for. Another moment, and Dr. Dodd was swung into eternity. Let it be said that there were some who had their doubts as to the wisdom of such exhibitions. Might not such frequent and public executions have a bad effect upon public taste and morals? "Why no, sir," said Dr. Johnson; "executions are intended to draw spectators. If they do not draw spectators they do not answer their purpose. The old method is satis- factory to all parties. The public is gratified by a procession, the criminal is supported by it." And his biographer, Hawkins, remarks complacently: "We live in an age in which humanity is the fashion." "And so they have hanged Dodd for forgery, have they?" casually remarked the Bishop of Bristol, from the depths of his easy-chair. "I'm sorry to hear it." "How so, my Lord?" "Because they have hanged him for the least of his crimes." XII OSCAR WILDE My interest in Oscar Wilde is a very old story: I went to hear him lecture when I was a boy, and, boy-like, I wrote and asked him for his autograph, which he sent me and which I still have. It seems strange that I can look back through thirty years to his visit to Philadelphia, and in imagination see him on the platform of old Horti- cultural Hall. I remember, too, the discussion which his visit occasioned, preceded as it was by the publi- cation in Boston of his volume of poems, the English edition having been received with greater cordiality than usually marks a young poet's first production — for such it practically was. At the time of his appearance on the lecture plat- form he was a large, well-built, distinguished-look- ing man, about twenty-six years old, with rather long hair, generally wearing knee-breeches and silk stockings. Any impressions which I may have re- ceived of this lecture are now very vague. I remem- ber that he used the word "renaissance" a good deal, and that at the time it was a new word to me; and it has always since been a word which has rattled round in my head very much as the blessed word "Mesopotamia" did in the mind of the old lady, who CARICATURE OF OSCAR WILDE From an original drawing by Aubrey Beardiley 320 AMENITIES OP BOOK-COLLECTING remarked that no one should deprive her of the hope of eternal punishment. Now, it would be well at the outset, in discussing Oscar Wilde, to abandon immediately all hope of eternal punishment — for others. My subject is a somewhat diflScult one, and it is not easy to speak of Wilde without overturning some of the more or less fixed traditions we have grown up with. We all have a lot of axioms in our systems, even if we are discreet enough to keep them from our tongues; and to do Wilde justice, it is necessary for us to free ourselves of some of these. To make my meaning clear, take the accepted one that genius is simply the capacity for hard work. This is all very well at the top of a copy-book, or to repeat to your son when you are didactically inclined; but for the pur- poses of this discussion, this and others like it should be abandoned. Having cleared our minds of cant, we might also frankly admit that a romantic or sin- ful life is, generally speaking, more interesting than a good one. Few men in English literature have lived a nobler, purer life than Robert Southey, and yet his very name sets us a-yawning, and if he lives at all it is solely due to his little pot-boiler, become a classic, the "Life of Nfelson." The two great events in Nelson's life were his meeting with Lady Emma Hamilton and his meeting with the French. Now, disguise it as we may, it still remains true that, in thinking of Nelson, we think as much of Lady Emma OSCAR WILDE 321 as we do of Trafalgar. Of course, in saying this I realize that I am not an Englishman making a pub- lic address on the anniversary of the great battle. Southey's life gives the lie to that solemn remark about genius being simply a capacity for hard work: if it were so, he would have ranked high; he worked incessantly, produced his to-day neglected poems, sup- ported his family and contributed toward the support of the families of his friends." He was a good man, and worked himself to death; but he was not a genius. On the other hand, Wilde was; but his life was not good, it was not pure; he did injury to his friends; and to his wife and children, the greatest wrong a man could do them, so that she died of a broken heart, and his sons live under an assumed name; yet, notwithstanding all this, perhaps to some extent by reason of it, he is a most interesting personality, and no doubt his future place in literature will be to some extent influenced by the fate which struck Viiin down just at the moment of his greatest success. Remembering Dr. Johnson's remark that in lapi- dary work a man is not upon oath, it has always seemed to me that something like the epitaph he wrote for Goldsmith's monument in Westminster Abbey might with equal justice have been carved upon Wilde's obscure tombstone in a neglected cor- ner of Bagneux Cemetery in Paris. The inscription I refer to translates: "He left scarcely any style of writing untouched and touched nothing that he did not adorn." 322 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING I am too good a Goldsmithian to compare Gold- smith, with all his faults and follies, to Wilde, with his faults and follies, and vices superadded; but Wilde wrote "Dorian Gray," a novel original and powerful in conception, as powerful as "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde"; and remembering that WUde was also an essayist, a poet, and a dramatist, I think we may fairly say that he too touched nothing that he did not adorn. But, to begin at the beginning. Wilde was not especially fortunate in his parents. His father was a. surgeon-oculist of Dublin, and was knighted by the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland — just why, does not appear, nor is it important; his son always seemed a little ashamed of the incident. His mother was the daughter of a clergyman of the Church of England. She was "advanced" for her time, wrote prose and verse, under the nom de plume of "Speranza," which were published frequently in a magazine, which was finally suppressed for sedition. If Lady Wilde was emancipated in thought, of her lord it may be said that he put no restraint whatever upon his acts. They were a brilliant, but what we would call to-day a Bohemian, couple. I have formed an impression that the father, in spite of certain weaknesses of char- acter, was a man of solid attainments, while of the mother! someone has said that she reminded him of a tragedy queen at a suburban theatre. This is awful. Oscar Wilde was a second son, bom in Dublin, on the 16th of October, 1854. He went to a school at OSCAR WILDE 323 Enniskillen, afterwards to Trinity College, Dublin, and finally to Magdalen College, Oxford. He had already begun to make a name for himseE at Trinity, where he won a gold medal for an essay on the Greek comic poets; but when, in June, 1878, he received the Newdigate Prize for English verse for a poem, "Ravenna," which was recited at the Sheldonian Theatre at Oxford, it can fairly be said that he had achieved distinction. While at Magdalen, Wilde is said to have fallen imder the influence of Ruskin, and spent some time in breaking stones on the highways, upon which operation Ruskin was experimenting. It may be ad- mitted that the work for its own sake never at- tracted WUde : it was the reward which followed — breakfast-parties, with informal and imlimited talk, in Ruskin's rooms. One does not have to read much of WUde to dis- cover that he had as great an aversion to games, which kept him in the open, as to physical labor. Bernard Shaw, that other Irish enigma, who in many ways of thought and speech resembles Wilde, when asked what his recreations were, replied, "Anything ex- cept sport." Wilde said that he would not play cricket because of the indecent postures it demanded; fox-himtiag — his phrase will be remembered — was "the unspeakable after the tmeatable." But he was the leader, if not the foimder, of the aesthetic cult, the symbols of which were peacock-feathers, simflowers, lilies, and blue china. His rooms, per- 324 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING haps the most talked about in Oxford, were beau- tifiolly paneled in oak, decorated with porcelain sup- posed to be very valuable, and hung with old en- gravings. From the windows there was a lovely view of the River Cherwell and the beautiful grounds of Magdalen College. He soon made himself the most talked-of person in the place: abusing his foes, who feared his tongue. His friends, as he later said of someone, did not care for him very much — no one cares to furnish mate- rial for incessant persiflage. When he left Oxford Oscar Wilde was already a weU-known figure: his sayings were passed from mouth to mouth, and he was a favorite subject for caricature in the pages of "Punch." Finally, he be- came known to all the, world as Bunthorne in Gilbert and Sullivan's opera, "Patience." From being the most talked-of man in Oxford, he became the most talked-of man in London — a very different thing: many a reputation has been lost on the road between Oxford and London. His reputation, stimulated by long hair and velveteen knee-breeches, gave Whis- tler a chance to say, "Our Oscar is knee plush ultra." People compared him with Disraeli. When he first became the talk of the town, great things were ex- pected of him; just what, no one presumed to say. To keep in the going while the going was good, Wilde published his volume of Poems (1881); it followed that everyone wanted to know what this singular young man had to say for himself, and paid half a OSCAR WILDE 325 guinea to find out. The volume immediately went through several editions, and, as I have mentioned, was reprinted in this country. Of these poems the "Saturday Review" said, — and I thank the "Saturday Review" for teaching me these words, for I think they fitly describe nine tenths of all the poetry that gets itself published, — "Mr. Wilde's verses belong to a class which is the special terror of the reviewers, the poetry which is neither good nor bad, which calls for neither praise nor blame, and in which one searches in vara for any personal touch of thought or music." It was at this point in his career that Wilde deter- mined to show himself to us: he came to America to lecture; was, of course, interviewed on his arrival in New York, and spoke with the utmost disrespect of the Atlantic. Considering how little ballast Wilde carried, his lectures here were a great success: "Nothing suc- ceeds like excess." He spoke publicly over two hun- dred times, and made what was, for him, a lot of money. Looking back, it seems a daring thing to do; but WUde was always doing daring things. To lec- ture in New York, Philadelphia, and Boston was all very well; but it would seem to have required cour- age for Wilde, fresh from Oxford, his reputation based on impudence, long hair, knee-breeches, a volmne of poems, and some pronounced opinions on art, to take himself, seriously, west to Omaha and Denver, and north as far as Halifax. However, he went and " OXJB OSCAR" AS HE WAS WHEN WE LOANED HEH TO AMERICA From a contemporwrv Engluh caricature OSCAR WILDE 327 returned alive, with at least one story which will never die. It was Wilde who said that he had seen in a dance-hall in a mining-camp the sign, "Don't shoot the pianist; he is doing his best." The success of this story was instant, and probably prompted him to invent the other one, that he [had heard of a man in Denver who, turning his back to examine some lithographs, had been shot through the head, which gave Wilde the chance of observing how dan- gerous it is to interest one's self in bad art. He re- marked also that Niagara Falls would have been more wonderful if the water had run the other way. On his return to England he at once engaged at- tention by his remark, "There is nothing new in America — except the language." Of him, it was observed that Delmonico had spoiled his figure. From London he went almost immediately to Paris, where he foimd sufficient reasons for cutting his hair and abandoning his pronoimced habiliments. Thus he arrived, as he said of himself, at the end of his second period. Wilde spoke French fluently and took steps to make himself at home in Paris; with what success, is not entirely clear. He made the acquaintance of distinguished people, wrote verses, and devoted a good deal of time to writing a play for Mary Ander- son, "The Duchess of Padua," which was declined by her and was subsequently produced in this coun- try by Lawrence Barrett and Minna Gale. In spite of their efforts, it lived for but a few nights. 328 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING Meanwhile it cost money to live in Paris, especially to dine at fashionable cafes, and Wilde decided to return to London; but making ends meet is no easier there than elsewhere. He wrote a little, lectured when he could, and having spent the small inheri- tance he had received from his father, it seemed that "Exit Oscar" might fairly be written against him. But to the gratification of some, and the surprise of all, just about this time came the announcement of his marriage to a beautiful and charming lady of some fortune, Constance Lloyd, the daughter of a deceased barrister. Whistler sent a characteristic wire to the church: "May not be able to reach you in time for ceremony; don't wait." Indeed, it may here be admitted that in an encounter between these wits it was Jimmie Whistler who usually scored. Of Whistler as an artist I know nothing. My friends the Pennells, at the close of their excellent biography, say, "His name and fame will live for- ever." This is a large order, but of Whistler, with his rapier-like wit, it behooved all to beware. In a weak moment Wilde once voiced his appreciation of a good thing of Whistler's with, "I wish I had said that." Quick as a flash, Jimmie's sword was through him, and forever: "Never mind, Oscar, you will." It may be that the Pennells are right. But to return. With Mrs. Wilde's funds, her hus- band's taste, and Whistler's suggestions, a house was furnished and decorated in Tite Street, Chelsea, and for a time all went well. But it soon became OSCAR WILDE 829 evident that some fixed income, certain, however small, was essential; fugitive verse and unsigned articles in magazines aflford small resource for an increasing family. Two sons were born, and, driven by the spur of necessity, Wilde became the Editor of "The Woman's World," and for a time worked as faithfully and diligently as his temperament per- mitted; but it was the old story of Pegasus harnessed to the plough. Except for editorial work, the next few years were improductive. "Dorian Gray," Wilde's one novel, appeared in the smnmer of 1890. It is exceedingly difficult to place: his claim that it was the work of a few days, written to demonstrate to some friends his ability to write a novel, may be dismissed as un- true — there is internal evidence to the contrary. It was probably written slowly, as most of his work was. In its first form it appeared in "Lippincott's Magazine" for July, 1890; but it was subjected to carefxil revision for publication in book form. Wilde always claimed that he had no desire to be a popular novelist — "It is far too easy," he said. "Dorian Gray" is an interesting and powerful, but artificial, production, leaving a bitter taste, as of aloes in the mouth: one feels as if one had been han- dling a poison. The law compels certain care in the use of explosives, and poisons, it is agreed, are best kept in packages of definite shape and color, that they may by their external appearance challenge the at- tention of the thoughtless. Only Roosevelt can tell 330 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING without looking what book should and what should not bear the governmental stamp, " Guaranteed to be pure and wholesome under the food and drugs act." Few, I think, would put this label on "Dorian Gray." Wilde's own criticism was that the book was inartis- tic because it has a moral. It has, but it is likely to be overlooked in its general nastiness. In "Dorian Gray" he betrays for the first and perhaps the only time the decadence which was subsequently to be the cause of his undoing. I have great admiration for what is called, and fre- quently ridiculed as, the artistic temperament, but I am a believer also in the sanity of true genius, especially when it is united, as it was in the case of Charles Lamb, with a fine, manly, honest bearing to- ward the world and the things in it; but alone it may lead us to yearn with Wilde To drift with every passion till my soul Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play. It has been suggested on good authority that it is very unpleasant to wear one's heart upon one's sleeve. To expose one's soul to the elements, how- ever interesting in theory, must be very painful in practice: Wilde was destined to find it so. Why the story escaped success at the hands of the adapter for the stage, I never could understand. The clever talk of the characters in the novel should be much more acceptable in the quick give-and-take of a society play than it is in a narrative of several hun- dred pages; moreover, it abounds in situations which OSCAR WILDE 331 are intensely dramatic, leading up to an overwhelm- ing climax; probably it was badly done. It is with a feeling of relief that one turns from "Dorian Gray" — which, let us agree, is a book which a yoimg girl would hesitate to put in the hands of her mother — to WUde's other prose work, so different in character. Of his shorter stories, his fairy tales and the rest, it would be a delight to speak: many of them are exquisite, and all as pure and deli- cate as a flower, with as sweet a perfume. They do not know Oscar Wilde who have not read "The Young King and the Star Child," and the "Happy Prince." That they are the work of the same brain that pro- duced "Dorian Gray" is almost beyond belief. What a baffling personality was Wilde's! Here is a man who has really done more than William Morris to make our homes artistic, and who is at one with Ruskin in his effort that our lives should be beautiful; he had a message to deliver, yet, by reason of his flippancy and his love of paradox, he is not yet rated at his real worth. It is difficult for one who is first of all a wit to make a serious impression on his listeners. I think it is Gilbert who says, "Let a professed wit say, 'pass the mustard,' and the table roars." Wilde was a careful and painstaking workman, serious as an artist, whatever he may have been as a man; and in the end he became a great master of English prose, working in words as an artist does in color, trying first one and then another imtil he had secured the desired effect, the effect of silk which 332 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING Seccombe speaks of. But he affected idleness. A story is told of his spending a week-end at a country house. Pleading the necessity of working while the humor was on, he begged to be excused from joining the other guests. In the evening at dinner his hostess asked him what he had accomplished, and his reply is famous. "This morning," he said, "I put a comma in one of my poems." Surprised and amused, the lady inquired whether the afternoon's work had been equally exhausting. "Yes," said Wilde, passing his hand wearily over his brow, "this afternoon I took it out again." Just about the time that London had made up its mind that Wilde was nothing but a clever man about town, welcome as a guest because of the amusement he afforded, "The Soul of Man Under Socialism" appeared in the "Fortnightly Magazine" for Feb- ruary, 1891. London was at once challenged and amazed. This essay opens with a characteristic state- ment, one of those peculiarly inverted paradoxes for which Wilde was shortly to become famous. "So- cialism," he says, "would relieve us from the sordid necessity of living for others"; and what follows is Wilde at his very best. What is it all about? I am not sure that I know: it seems to be a plea for the individual, perhaps it is a defense of the poor; it is said to have been translated into the languages of the downtrodden, the Jew, the Pole, the Russian, and to be a comfort to them; I hope it is. Do such outpourings do any good, do OSCAR WILDE 333 they change conditions, is the millennium brought nearer thereby? I hope so. But if it is comforting for the downtrodden, whose wants are ill supplied, it is a sheer delight for the downtreader who, free from anx- iety, sits in his easy-chair and enjoys its technical excellence. I know nothing like it: it is as fresh as paint, and like fresh paint it sticks to one; in its brilliant, serious, and unexpected array of fancies and theories, in truths inverted and distorted, in witticisms which are in turn tender and hard as flint, one is delighted and bewildered. Wilde has only himseK to blame if this, a serious and beautiful essay, was not taken seriously. "The Soul of Man Under Socialism" is the work of a consummate artist who, taking his ideas, disguises and distorts them, poUshing them the while until they shine like jewels in a rare and unusual setting. Nat- urally, almost every other line in such a work is quotable: it seems to be a mass of quotations which one is sm-prised not to have heard before. Interesting as Wilde's other essays are, I will not speak of them; with the exception of " Pen, Pencil and Poison," a study of Thomas Griffiths Wainewright, the poisoner, they will inevitably be forgotten. Of Wilde's poems I am not competent to speak: they are full of Arcady and Eros; nor am I of those who believe that "every poet is the spokesnaan of God." A book-agent once called on Abraham Lincohi and sought to sell him a book for which the President had no use. Failing, he asked Lincoln if he would not 334 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING write an indorsement of the work which would enable him to sell it to others. Whereupon the President, always anxious to oblige, with a humor entirely his own, wrote, "Any one who likes this kind of book will find it just the kind of book they like." So it is with Wilde's poetry: by many it is highly esteemed, but I am inclined to regard it as a part of his "literary wild oats." After several attempts in the field of serious drama, in which he was unsuccessful, by a fortunate chance he turned his attention to the lighter forms of comedy, in which he was destined to count only the greatest as his rivals. Pater says these comedies have been unexcelled since Sheridan; this is high praise, though not too high; but it is rather to contrast than to compare such a grand old comedy as the "School for Scandal" with, say, "The Importance of Being Earnest." They are both brilliant, both artificial; they both reflect in some manner the life and the at- mosphere of their time; but the mirror which Sheri- dan holds up to nature is of steel and the picture is hard and cold; Wilde, on the other hand, uses an ex- aggerating glass, which seems specially designed to reflect warmth and flufBness. Wilde was the first to produce a play which de- pends almost entirely for its success, on brilliant talk. In this field Shaw is now conspicuous: he can grow the flower now because he has the seed. It was Wilde who taught him how, Wilde who, in four light come- dies, gave the English stage something it had been OSCAR WILDE 335 without for a century. His comedies are irresistibly clever, sparkle with wit, with a flippant and insolent levity, and withal have a theatrical dexterity which Shaw's are almost entirely without. While greatly inferior in construction to Pinero's, they are as bril- liantly written; the plots amount to almost nothing: talk, not the play, is the thing; and but for their author's eclipse they would be as constantly on the boards to-day in this country and in England as they are at present on the Continent. The first comedy, "Lady Windermere's Fan," was produced at the St. James's, February 22, 1892. Its success, despite the critics, was instant: full of saucy repartee, overwrought with epigrams of the peculiar kind conspicuous in the "Soul of Man," it delighted the audience. "Punch" made a feeble pun about Wilde's play being tame, forgetting the famous dic- tum that the great end of a comedy is to make the audience merry; and this end WUde had attained, and he kept his audiences in the same humor for several years — until the end. Of his plays this is, perhaps, the best known in this country. It was successfully given in New York, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, only a year or two ago. It might, I think, be called his "pleasant play": for a time it looks as if a pure wife were going astray, but the audience is not kept long in suspense: the plot can be neglected and the lines enjoyed, with the satisfactory feeling that it will all come out right in the end. "A Woman of No Importance" is in my judgment 336 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING the least excellent of his four comedies; it might be called his ^'unpleasant" play: it is two acts of sheer talk, in Wilde's usual vein, and two acts of acting. The plot is, as usual, insignificant. A certain lazy- villain in high official position meets a young fellow and offers him a post as his secretary. The boy, much pleased, introduces his mother, and the villain dis- covers that the boy is his own son. The son insists that the father should marry his mother, but she declines. The father offers to make what amends he can, loses his temper, and refers to the lady as a woman of no importance; for which he gets his face well smacked. The son marries a rich American Puri- tan. This enables Wilde to be very witty at the ex- pense of American fathers, mothers, and daughters. Tree played the villain very well, it is said. Never having seen Wilde's next play acted, I once innocently framed this statement for the domestic circle: "I have never seen 'An Ideal Husband'"; and when my wife sententiously replied that she had never seen one either, I became careful to be more explicit in future statements. No less clever than the others, it has plot and action, and is interesting to the end. Of all his plays it is the most dramatic. On its first production it was provided with a splendid cast, including Lewis Waller, Charles Hawtrey, Julia Neilson, Maude MiUett, and Fanny Brough. In the earlier plays all the characters talked Oscar Wilde; in this Wilde took the trouble, for it must have been to him a trouble, to conceal himseff and let his people OSCAR WILDE 337 speak for themselves: they stay in their own char- acters in what they do as well as in what they say. "An Ideal Husband" was produced at the Hay- market early in 1905, and a few weeks later, at the St. James's, "The Importance of Being Earnest." Wilde called this a trivial comedy for serious peo- ple. It is clever beyond criticism; but, as one critic says, one might as well sit down and gravely discuss the true inwardness of a souflBe. In it Wilde fairly lets himself loose; such talk there never was before; it fairly bristles with epigram; the plot is a farce; it is a mental and verbal extravaganza. Wilde was at his best, scintillating as he had never done before, and doing it for the last time. He is reported to have said that the first act is ingenious, the second beautiful, and the third abominably clever. Ingenious it is, but its beauty and cleverness are beyond praise. To have seen the lovely Miss Millard as Cecily, the country girl, to have heard her teU Gwendolen, the London society queen (Irene Vanbrugh), that "flowers are as common in the country as people are in London," is a delight never to be forgotten. Wilde was now at the height of his fame. That the licenser of the stage had forbidden the performance of "Salome" was a disappointment; but Sarah Bern- hardt had promised to produce it in Paris, and, not thinking that when his troubles came upon him she would break her word, he was able to overcome his chagrin. Only a year or two before, he had been in need, if 338 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING not in abject poverty. He was now in receipt of large royalties. No form of literary effort makes money faster than a successful play. Wilde had two, run- ning at the best theatres. His name was on every lip in London; even the cabbies knew him by sight; he had arrived at last, but his stay was only for a mo- ment. Against the advice and wishes of his friends, with "fatal insolence," he adopted a course which^ had he been capable of thought, he must have seen would inevitably lead to his destruction. To those mental scavengers, the psychologists, I leave the determination of the exact nature of the disease which was the cause of Wilde's downfall: it is enough for me to know that whom the gods would destroy they first make mad. The next two years Wilde spent in solitary and degrading seclusion; his sufferings, mental and phys- ical, can be imagined. Many have fallen from heights greater than his, but none to depths more humiliating. Many noble men and dainty women have been subjected to greater indignities than he, but they have been supported by their belief in the justice or honor of the cause for which they suffered. Wilde was not, however, sustained by the con- sciousness of innocence, nor was he so mentally dwarfed as to be unable to realize the awfulness of his fate. The literary result was "De Profundis." Written while in prison, in the form of a letter to his friend Robert Ross, it was not published imtil OSCAR WILDE 339 five years after his death: indeed, only about one third of the whole has as yet appeared in English. "De Profundis" may be in parts offensive, but as a specimen of English prose it is magnificent; it is by way of becoming a classic: no student of literature can neglect this cry of a soul lost to this world, in- tent upon proving — I know not what — that art is greater than life, perhaps. Much has been written in regard to it: by some it is said to show that even at the time of his deepest degradation he did not appre- ciate how low he had fallen; that to the last he was only a 'poseur — a phrase-maker; that, genuine as his sorrow was, he nevertheless was playing with it, and was simply indulging himself in rhetoric when he said, "I, once a lord of language, have no words in which to express my anguish and my shame." One would say that it was not the sort of book which would become popular; nevertheless, more than twenty editions have been published in English, and it has been translated into French, German, Itahan, and Russian. It was inevitable that "De Profundis" should become the subject of controversy: Oscar Wilde's sincerity has always been challenged; he was called affected. His answer to this charge is complete and conclusive: "The value of an idea has nothing what- ever to do with the sincerity of the man who ex- presses it." For many years, mdeed until quite recently, his name cast a blight over all his work. This was in- 340 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING evitable, but it was inevitable also that the work of such a genius should sooner or later be recognized. Only a few years ago I heard "a cultured lady say, "I never expected to hear his name mentioned in po- lite society again." But the time is rapidly approach- ing when Oscar Wilde wUl come into his own, when he will be recognized as one of the greatest and most original writers of his time. When shall we English- speaking people learn that a man's work is one thiug and his life another.? It is much to be regretted that Wilde's life did not end with "De Profundis"; but his misfortimes were to continue. After his release from prison he went to France, where he lived under the name of Sebastian Melmoth: but as Sherard, his biographer, says, "He hankered after respectability." It was no longer the social distinction which the imthinking crave when they have all else: this great writer, he who had been for a brief moment the idol of cultured London, sought mere respectability, and sought it in vain. Only when he was neglected and despised, miser- able and broken in spirit, sincere feeling at last over- came the affectation which was his real nature and he wrote his one great poem, "The Ballad of Read- ing Gaol." No longer could the "Saturday Review" "search in vain for the personal touch of thought and music": the thought is there, very simple and direct and personal without a doubt: the music is no longer the modulated noise of his youth. The Ballad is an almost faultless work of art. What could be OSCAR WILDE 341 more impressive than the description of daybreak in prison : — At last I saw the shadowed bars, Like a lattice wrought in lead. Move right across the whitewashed wall That faced my three-plank bed. And I knew that somewhere in the world God's dreadful dawn was red. The life begun with such promise drew to a close: an outcast, deserted by his friends, the few who remained true to him he insulted and abused. He became dissipated, wandered from France to Italy and back again. In mercy it were well to draw the curtain. The end came in Paris with the close of the century he had done so much to adorn. He died on November 30, 1900, and was buried, by his faith- ful friend, Robert Ross, in a grave which was leased for a few years in Bagneux Cemetery. The kindness of Robert Ross to Oscar Wilde is one of the most touching things in literary history. The time has not yet come to speak of it at length, but the facts are known and will not always be with- held. Owing largely to his efforts, a permanent rest- ing-place was secured a few years ago in the most famous cemetery in France, the Pere Lachaise. There, in an immense sarcophagus of granite, curi- ously carved, were placed the remains of him who wrote: — "Society, as we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have 342 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING clefts in the rock where I may hide, and sweet valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt,- she will cleanse me in great waters and with bitter herbs make me whole." It is too early to judge Wilde's work entirely apart from his life: to do so will always be difficult: we could do so the sooner if we had a Dr. Johnson among us to speak with authority and say, "Let not his misfor- tunes be remembered, he was a very great man." XIII A WORD IN MEMORY To have been born and lived all his life in Philadel- phia, yet to be best known in London and New York; to have been the eldest son of a rich man and the eldest grandson of one of the richest men in America, yet of so quiet and retiring a disposition as to excite remark; to have been but a few years out of college, yet to have achieved distinction in a field which is commonly supposed to be the browsing-place of age; to have been relatively imknown in his life and to be immortal in his death — such are the brief out- lines of the career of Harry Elkins Widener. It is a curious commentary upon human nature that the death of one person well known to us aflfects us more than the deaths of hundreds or thousands not known to us at all. It is for this reason, perhaps, at a time when the papers bring us daily their rec- ord of human suflfering and misery from the war in Europe, that I can forget the news of yesterday and live over again the anxious hours which followed the brief announcement that the Titanic, on her maiden voyage, the largest, finest, and fastest ship afloat, had struck an iceberg in mid-ocean, and that there were grave fears for the safety of her passengers and crew. There the first news ceased. 344 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING The accident had occurred at midnight; the sea was perfectly calm, the stars shone clearly; it was bitter cold. The ship was going at full speed. A slight jar was felt, but the extent of the injury was not realized and few passengers were alarmed. When the order to lower the boats was given there was little confusion. The order went round, "Women and children first." Harry and his father were lost, his mother and her maid were rescued. In all that subsequently appeared in the press, — ' and for days the appalling disaster was the one sub^ ject of discussion, — the name of Harry Elkins Wid- ener appeared simply as the eldest son 'of George D. Widener. Few knew that, quite aside from the finan- cial prominence of his father and the social distinc- tion and charm of his mother, Harry had a reputa- tion which was entirely of his own making. He was a bom student of bibliography. Books were at once his work, his recreation, and his passion. To them he devoted all his time; but outside the circle of his intimate friends few understood the unique and lov- able personality of the man to whom death came so suddenly on April 15, 1912, shortly after he had completed his twenty-seventh year. His knowledge of books was truly remarkable. In the study of rare books, as in the study of an exact science, authority usually comes only with years. With Harry Widener it was different. He had been collecting only since he left college, but his intense enthusiasm, his painstaking care, his devo- HAREY ELKINS WIDENER A WORD IN MEMORY 345 tion to a single object, his wonderful memory, and, as he gracefully says in the introduction to the cata- logue of some of the more important books in his library, "The interest and kindness of my grand- father and my parents," had enabled him in a few years to secure a number of treasures of which any collector might be proud. Harry Elkins Widener was born in Philadelphia on January 3, 1885. He received his early educa- tion at the Hill School, from which he was gradu- ated in 1903. He then entered Harvaard University, where he remained four years, receiving his bache- lor's degree in 1907. It was while a student at Har- vard that he first began to show an interest in book- collecting; but it was not until his college days were over that, as the son of a rich man, he found, as many another man has done, that the way to be happy is to have an occupation. He lived with his parents and his grandfather in their palatial residence, Lynnewood Hall, just out- side Philadelphia. .He was proud of the distinction of his relatives, and used to say, "We are a family of collectors. My grandfather collects paintings, my mother collects silver and porcelains. Uncle Joe col- lects everything," — which indeed he does, — "and I, books." Book-collecting soon became with him a very seri- ous matter, a matter to which everything else was subordinated. He began, as all collectors do, with unimportant things at first; but how rapidly his 346 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING taste developed may be seen from glancing over the pages of the catalogue of his library, which, strictly speaking, is not a library at aU — he would have been the last to call it so. It is but a collection of perhaps three thousand volumes; but they were selected by a man of almost unlimited means, with rare judg- ment and an instinct for discovering the best. Money alone will not make a bibliophile, although, I con- fess, it develops one. His first folio of Shakespeare was the Van Ant- werp copy, formerly Locker Lampson's, one of the finest copies known; and he rejoiced in a copy of "Poems Written by Wil. Shakespeare, Gent," 1640, in the original sheepskin binding. His "Pickwick," if possibly inferior in interest to the Harry B. Smith copy, is nevertheless superb: indeed he had two, one "in parts as published, with all the points," another a presentation copy to Dickens's friend, William Harrison Ainsworth. In addition he had several original drawings, by Seymour, including the one in which the shad-bellied Mr. Pickwick, having with some difficulty mounted a chair, proceeds to address the Club. The discovery and acquisition of this draw- ing, perhaps the most famous illustration ever made for a book, is indicative of Harry's taste as a collector. One of his favorite books was the Countess of Pembroke's own copy of Sir Philip Sidney's "Ar- cadia," and it is indeed a noble volume; but Harry's love for his mother, I think, invariably led him, when he was showing his treasures, to point out a sen- A WORD IN MEMORY 347 tence written in his copy of Cowper's "Task." The book had once been Thackeray's, and the great novelist had written on the frontispiece, "A great point in a great man, a great love for his mother. A very fine and true portrait. Could artist possibly choose a better position than the above? W. M. Thackeray." "Isn't that a lovely sentiment?" Harry woiild say; "and yet they say Thackeray was a cynic and a snob." His "Esmond" was presented by Thackeray to Charlotte Bronte. His copy of the "Ingoldsby Legends" was unique. In the first edi- tion, by some curious oversight on the part of the printer, page 236 had been left blank, and the error was not discovered until a few sheets had been printed. In a presentation copy to his friend, E. R. Moran, on this blank page, Barham had written: — By a blunder for which I have only myself to thank, Here's a page has been somehow left blank. Aha! my friend Moran, I have you. You'll look In vain for a fault in one page of my book! signing the verse with his nom de plume, Thomas Ingoldsby. Indeed, in all his books, the utmost care was taken to secure the copy which would have the greatest hu- man interest: an ordinary presentation copy of the first issue of the first edition would serve his purpose only if he were sure that the dedication copy was im- obtainable. His Boswell's "Life of Johnson" was the dedication copy to Sir Joshua Reynolds, with an inscription in the author's hand. S48 AMENITIES OP BOOK-COLLECTING He was always on the lookout for rarities, and Dr. Rosenbach, in the brief memoir which serves as an introduction to the Catalogue of his Stevenson col- lection, says of him: — "I remember once seeing him on his hands and knees under a table in a bookstore. On the floor was a huge pile of books that had not been disturbed for years. He had just pulled out of the d6bris a first edition of Swinburne, a presentation copy, and it was good to behold the light in his face as he exclaimed, 'This is better than working in a gold mine.' To him it was one." His collection of Stevenson is a monument to his industry and patience, and is probably the finest col- lection in existence of that much-esteemed author. He possessed holograph copies of the Vailima Letters and many other priceless treasures, and he secured the manuscript of, and published privately for Stevenson lovers, in an edition of forty-five copies, an autobi- ography written by Stevenson in California in the early eighties. This item, under the title of " Memoirs of Himself," has an inscription, "Given to Isabel Stewart Strong ... for future use, when the under- writer is dead. With love, Robert Louis Stevenson." The catalogue of his Stevenson collection a,lone, the painstaking work of his friend and mentor. Dr. Rosen- bach, makes an imposing volume and is an invaluable work of reference for Stevenson collectors. Harry once told me that he never traveled without a copy of "Treasure Island," and knew it practically A WORD IN MEMORY 349 by heart. I, myself, am not averse to a good book as a traveling companion ; but in my judgment, for constant readfiig, year in and year out, it sbould be a book which sets you thinking, rather than a narrative like "Treasure Island," but — chaeun a son gout But it were te- dious to enumerate his treasures, nor is it necessary. They wiU ever remain, a monument to his taste and skill as a collector, in the keeping of Harvard MEMOIRS OF 'HIMSELF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON PBDfTBD PXOU TBS QjtIOmAt MAMVSCUPf nv m lOSSSSSIOH OF aARRy ELXms widener PSILAnSLtBlA VOK f UTAIS OISTXIBDTIOH OHLV Mil University — his Alma Mater- It is, however, worth while to attempt to fix in some measure the individuality, the rare personality of the man. I eajonot be naistakeia in thinking that maay, looking at the wonderful library erected in Cambridge by his mother in his memory, may wish to know something of the man himself. Theipe is in truth not much to tell. A few dates have already been given, and when to these is added the statement that he was of retiring and studious disposition, considerate and courteous, little more 350 AMENITIES OP BOOK-COLLECTING remains to be said. He lived with and for his books, and was never so happy as when he was saying, "Now if you will put aside that cigar for a moment, I will show you something. Cigar ashes are not good iot first editions"; and a moment later some precious volume would be on your knees. What collector does not enjoy showing his treasures to others as apprecia- tive as himseU? Many delightful hours his intimates have passed in his library, which was also his bed- room, — for he wanted his books about him, where he could play with them at night and where his eye might rest on them the first thing in the morning, — but this was a privilege extended only to true book- lovers. To others he was unapproachable and almost shy. Of tmfailing courtesy and an amiable and lov- ing disposition, his friends were very dear to him. "Bill," or someone else, "is the salt of the earth," you would frequently hear him say. "Are you a book-collector, too?" his grandfather once asked me across the dinner-table. Laughingly I said, "I thought I was, but I am not in Harry's class." To which the old gentleman replied, — and his eye beamed with pride the whUe, — "I am afraid that Harry will impoverish the entire family." I answered that I should be sorry to hear that, and suggested that he and I, if we put our fortunes to- gether, might prevent this calamity. His memory was most retentive. Once let him get a fact or a date imbedded in his mind and it was there BEVERLY CHEW, OF NEW YORK, WHO COMBINES A PROFOUND LOVE OF ENGLISH LITERATURE WITH AN INEXHAUSTIBLE KNOWLEDGE OF FIRST EDITIONS A WORD IN MEMORY 351 forever. He knew the name of every actor he had ever seen, and the part he had taken in the play last year and the year before. He knew the name of every baseball player and had his batting and running average. When it came to the chief interest of his life, his thirst for knowledge was insatiable. I re- member one evening when we were in New York together, in Beverly Chew's library, Harry asked Mr. Chew some question about the eccentricities of the title-pages of the first edition of Milton's "Paradise Lost." Mr. Chew began rolling off the bibliographical data, like the ripe scholar that he is, when I suggested to Harry that he had better make a note of what Mr. Chew was saying. He replied, "I should only lose the paper; whUe if I get it in my head I will put it where it can't be lost; that is," he added, " as long as I keep my head." And his memory extended to other collections than his own. For him to see a book once was for him to remember it always. If I told him I had bought such and such a book, he would know from whom I bought it and all about it, and would ask me if I had noticed some especial point, which, in all probability, had escaped me. He was a member of several clubs, including the Grolier Club, the most important club of its kind in the world. The late J. P. Morgan had sent word to the chairman of the membership committee that he would like Harry made a member. The question of his seconder was waived : it was imderstood that Mr. 352 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING Morgan's endorsement of his protege's qualifications was suflScient. It was one night, when we were in New York to- gether during the first Hoe sale, that I had a conver- sation with Harry, to which, in the light of subsequent events,. I have often recurred. We had dined together at my club and had gone to the sale; but th^e was nothing of special interest coming up, and after a half hour or so, he suggested that we go to the theatre. I reminded him that it was quite late, and that at such an hour a music-hall would be best. He agreed, and in a few moaaents we were witnessing a very diflFerent perfoumance from the one we had left in the Anderson auction rooms; but the performance was a poor one. Harry was restless and finally suggested that we taks a walk out Fifth Avenue. During this walk he con- fessed to me his longing to be identified andi remem- bered in conaaectiosi with some great library. He ex- panded this idea at length. He said : " I do not wish to be remembered merely as a collector of a few booksi however fine they may be. I want to be remembered in connection with a great library^ and I do not see how it is going to be brought about. Mr. Hunting- ton and Mr. Morgan are buying up all the books, and Mr. Bixby is getting the manuscripts. When my time comes, if it ever does, there will be nothing left for me — everything will be gone!" We spent the night together, and after I had gone to bed he came to my room again, and calling me by a nick-name, said, "I have got to do something in MR. HUNTINGTON AMONG HIS BOOKS A WORD IN MEMORY 353 connection with books to make myself remembered. WhatshaUitbe?" I laughingly suggested that he write one, but he said it was no jesting matter. Then it came out that he thought he would establish a chair at Harvard for the study of bibliography in all its branches. He was much disturbed by the lack of interest which great scholars frequently evince toward his favorite subject. With this he returned to his own room, and I went to sleep; but I have often thought of this conversa- tion since I, with the rest of the world, learned that his mother was prepared, in his memory, to erect the great building at Harvard which is his monument. His ambition has been achieved. Associated with books, his name will ever be. The great library at Harvard is his memorial. In its sanctum sanctorum his collection will find a fitting place. We lunched together the day before he sailed for Eiu-ope, and I happened to remark at parting, "This time next week you will be in London, probably, limch- ing at the Ritz." "Yes," he said, "very likely with Quaritch." While in London Harry spent most of his time with that great bookseller, the second to bear the name of Quaritch, who knew all the great book-collectors the world over, and who once told me that he knew no man of his years who had the knowledge and taste of Harry Widener. " So many of your great American collectors refer to books in terms of steel rails; with Harry it is a genuine and all-absorbing passion, and 354 AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING he is so entirely devoid of side and affectation." In this he but echoed what a friend once said to me at Lynnewood Hall, where we were spending the day: "The marvel is that Harry is so entirely unspoiled by his fortune." Harry was a constant attendant at the auction rooms at Sotheby's in London, at Anderson's in New York, or wherever else good books were going. He chanced to be in London when the first part of the Huth library was being disposed of, and he was anx- ious to get back to New York in time to attend the final Hoe sale, where he hoped to secure some books, and bring to the many friends he would find there the latest gossip of the London auction rooms. Alas ! Harry had bought his last book. It was an excessively rare copy of Bacon's "Essaies," the edi- tion of 1598. Quaritch had secured it for him at the Huth sale, and as he dropped in to say good-bye and give his final instructions for the disposition of his purchases, he said: "I think I 'U take that little Bacon with me in my pocket, and if I am shipwrecked it will go with me." And I know that it was so. In all the history of book-collecting this is the most touching story. The death of Milton's friend, Edward King, by drowning, inspired the poet to write the immortal elegy, "Lycidas." Who would not sing for Lycidas? — He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept. A WORD IN MEMORY 355 When Shelley's body was cast up by the waves on the shore near Via Reggio, he had a volume of Keats's poems in his pocket, doubled back at "The Eve of St. Agnes." And in poor Harry Widener's pocket there was a Bacon, and in this Bacon we might have read, "The same man that was envied while he lived shall be loved when he is gone." CAMBR1J>GE . MASSACHUSETTS U . s ■ A i